Paper Faces on Parade
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: As House and Wilson try to balance their strained friendship and life with their girlfriends, House treats a neo-Nazi he can't trust.
1. Chapter 1

**SEX** is another word for gender. Now that I have your attention . . .

There is some canon House/Cuddy and canon Sam/Wilson, however it is eventual House/Wilson slash. So, no worries! Also, I have been working on this fic since May 25th and it's finally finished. This is a case!fic, so even though I have done TONS of research for it, I AM NOT A DOCTOR-thus, please excuse any medicinal mistakes. That being said, the patient does not actually show up until chapter three. Since he and his family have a neo-Nazi lifestyle, I would like to point out they do not reflect my own beliefs, and I have kept all anti-Semitism and racism to a minimum.

Thanks to dissonata for all of his help!

Paper Faces on Parade

Chapter One

Screeching tore him from his dreams of spices and steam wafting around his nostrils, and the stark contrast between fantasy and reality hit him straight in the gut. Soft jazz had been playing in his mind, some made up tune that half-resembled a song he used to play on his organ, and now all he heard was the loud cries of Rachel. Fabric softener and the vague scent of fruity shampoo replaced sizzling banana peppers and garlic, and he ran his hands across his face tiredly, the scratchy feel of two-day stubble scraping his palm.

The wailing wouldn't stop, that he knew. It never really did. Even when Rachel wasn't crying, he was on edge for the next moment when she would. Predictably, Cuddy came into the room after probably two minutes of House staring at the ceiling.

"Greg," she snapped, and his eyebrow quirked at the use of his first name. Even still, he could hear the briefest of hesitations before she said it. "Could you take care of Rachel for a minute?" The slight edge to her tone belied the fact she was trying to appear congenial.

He glanced at the clock. 5:48.

She had an early appointment. Something to do with finances or rocket science or curing world hunger. Something important, he supposed and half-remembered. He really didn't care. But he let out a sigh and swung his legs off the bed, ignoring the twinge in his thigh (something he'd gotten good at ages ago-after all, he was used to twinges, and it hadn't been very long after the infarction he'd realized it would never go away) and didn't tell her for the twentieth time that Rachel probably didn't actually need anything. She had conditioned herself to cry whenever she was bored. Holding her whenever she bawled only reinforced the behaviour, instead of abolishing it so she would only cry whenever she actually needed something.

He had told her several times but stopped the third week into their relationship.

When he stood up properly and nodded at her to convey he was going to take care of Rachel, she didn't say thanks-instead, she just let out a huff and left.

Rachel sat in her crib, in all her one-and-a-half year old glory. Her face was bright red while she screamed and shouted, cheeks shiny with tears, and he stood at her crib, watching her for a moment. She must have sensed his presence because she stopped crying and just stared at him. Her big eyes shone with tears and she blinked, then lifted her hands out and whimpered.

House picked her up and held her at arms' length. He'd only known Rachel for about a month, and she still stared at him like . . . Well, like the same way she stared at a pillow. She blinked and he held her closer to his chest and she squirmed, as she always did, and started whimpering and hiccoughing and babbling. "Para novella," she stringed together, as if it really meant something.

He wouldn't tell Cuddy that she'd said something in Spanish, even if it made little sense. He'd made that mistake last week, and wasn't very interested in making it again.

He stumbled tiredly to the bedroom and flopped onto his side of the mattress. He placed Rachel beside him. She sat and blinked at him, face scrunched up like she might cry, but she didn't. She simply ignored him and started smacking the blanket like it really did something. "Appals, nanas," she trilled, then giggled. "Look is. Look is sick," she mumbled and blinked at him again, before sighing and smacking the blanket again.

It wasn't 'look is' she was saying, but House wasn't going to start another argument about who Rachel preferred holding her.

She continued to babble while House watched her through half-closed lids, speaking a mixture between Spanish and English but not well enough for him to consider it Spanglish, and he could smell bacon sizzling and sausage. Rachel turned to him and giggled and he snarled a bit when she began chewing on his clothes, but he couldn't really do much about it since he was strapped to the bed and all.

"What are you doing tied up?" Wilson asked when he walked into the room, hands on his hips. "Honestly, House, is Basil at it again? I wondered where my ties went."

House sighed when Wilson pulled Rachel away. He undid the tie around House's wrist and dropped it to the mattress with a thump, and opened his mouth to wail hysterically.

House jerked awake just as Cuddy burst into the room, fully dressed all except she had one heel in her hand. "House!" she snapped angrily, forgoing his given name and even though she said it in anger, he preferred it to 'Greg.'

The confused daze from being forced awake suddenly drifted above him like the scent of sizzling bacon that he realized a moment later didn't actually exist, and his stomach growled. Cuddy bolted across the room and plucked a shrieking Rachel from the ground.

"I asked you to watch her!" she yelled, checking Rachel over frantically, although she was clearly fine.

House remembered three days ago when Rachel, who was old enough to walk, had hit her head against the wall. Purposely. Then started crying when Cuddy came running towards her. House had taken it upon himself to tell Cuddy that young children and babies often hit their heads repeatedly to release endorphins and get high. It was the same thing he'd told her when four days before that Rachel grabbed the table, braced herself, then smacked her head against the top. Both times had ended in an argument.

"She's fine," he said instead, ignoring the way Rachel grinned at him when Cuddy hugged her tightly. House thought he saw Rachel wink, but that might have been because he was still a little sleepy.

"I asked you to watch her-you know I have to leave soon-and instead you fell asleep!"

"I didn't get to sleep until three so-"

"Then you need to go to sleep sooner! What if she'd been seriously hurt?"

"Christ, woman, she's almost two years old, not three weeks!" he snapped tiredly, then winced when he heard the small intake of breath that meant Cuddy was about to get annoyed. Well, more annoyed than she already was. "I'll get off the bed," he forestalled, then pushed himself off the mattress, thigh muscle stretching underneath his scar very awkwardly, pins and needles dancing along his skin.

He'd gotten used to Wilson's half-hidden looks of concern when he winced. Although he didn't always comment on his own pain it didn't mean it wasn't there, despite the fact everybody this past year had been under the impression his thigh had been magically cured through Ibuprofen. Apparently, unless House was actively rubbing his thigh and/or bitching, Cuddy was completely unaware. He supposed it wasn't really all that bad considering he didn't have to deal with her pulling a Cameron and getting all starry-eyed and sympathetic if he so much as limped slower, but it did mean he had to deal with pained expressions and lectures that even Wilson would've blanched over every time House shook out an extra pill.

He limped over to his girlfriend, which even two months later still felt awkward, and took Rachel gently. Rachel sniffled and whined a little, apparently not too ecstatic to be held by House. She reminded House about a dinner they were putting together for some big-wig contemplating donating to the diagnostics department, gave him a quick kiss goodbye, put on her heels and started out the door. "Don't be late for work!" she called over her shoulder before the door shut soundly.

It was nearing six and he heard Cuddy's car driving away.

House put Rachel back in the crib and was halfway to the bed when she let out a shriek.

He knew she didn't really need the attention. He'd barely gotten three hours of sleep, and if Cuddy expected him to be able to do his job, he would need to get some more.

He closed the bedroom door and Rachel screamed louder.

Sighing, he turned back around, left his room, and pulled Rachel out of the crib, clenching his jaw at the babbled name of Cuddy's ex-boyfriend.

* * *

"Dammit, Rachel!" House shouted as blood trickled down his face, the searing, burning slice blinding him for a brief second.

"Is not dormir para candy?" Rachel asked, blinking her huge eyes, then went over to the toilet to start opening and shutting the lid very loudly.

"Most emphatically not," he spat in her direction, then glared down at the droplets of shiny red against the pristine porcelain of the sink, then at himself in the mirror.

Apparently, beard burn was not a plus in the Great Book of All Things Lisa Cuddy. She hadn't minded the first two weeks, but then after a vigorous make out session that had been interrupted by Rachel deciding that climbing the bookshelf was fun and safe entertainment, Cuddy had rescued Rachel and said; "You need to shave, House."

The third week had gone by without so much as a kiss, and he'd decided that shaving wasn't too much of a hassle. After all, it was just a beard.

Shaving nicks bled a lot, apparently, and stung like a bitch, and so he washed off his razor, cleaning it of blood, and then pressed a cold, wet cloth to his face.

The banging echoed throughout the bathroom while Rachel babbled uselessly. He preferred her making incredibly annoying racket with the toilet seat than grabbing a fistful of his shirt and dropping to her ass, thereby making his torso lurch and arm slip, cutting his otherwise-fresh face.

He pulled away the cold rag, a bloody circle spiking against the fabric. He looked at his reflection in the mirror; at his smooth, clean, elongated face; at the wrinkles around his lips and across his skin that the beard had always managed to hide. Maybe it wasn't the lack of the beard that made him look older, but something certainly did.

He remembered Wilson once telling him he looked good unshaven. Truth or otherwise, House agreed.

That was when Rachel barrelled right into his thigh.

"DAMMIT!" he shouted, dropping his razor into the sink as he crumpled forward, the searing, blinding pain radiating up into his abdomen and making him nauseous. Bright white circles popped in his vision as he fell to his knees, hitting the hard floor, and he let out a howl of pain.

Rachel, who had been giggling and had probably just wanted to play, as House was sure she did with Lucas, suddenly burst into hysterics.

House gritted his teeth and hissed, then opened his eyes (which had been shut tightly although he didn't remember closing them).

He shakily stood and opened the mirror, revealing the medicine cabinet, while Rachel tottered off into a corner and held her breath, cheeks puffing out. He shook out four extra-strength prescription Ibuprofen, the rattling not nearly as soothing as the sound of Vicodin although it didn't technically sound different, and put it in his mouth, cupping some water in his hand and swallowing while Rachel stomped.

She was angry and he knew it. House hadn't wanted her to be wandering around without supervision while he got ready, and so he'd done what he did every morning-bathed Rachel first and then himself. He kept her in the bathroom as he bathed because he didn't want her running around the house without supervision. This hadn't gone too horribly, except that as he'd closed his eyes to lather a soaped-rag across his face, Rachel ate the slim bar of soap, which she'd thought funny, especially when she burped up a bubble.

Actually, in all honesty, that had been pretty hilarious and somewhat not un-cute, and so House had joined in on the laughter. Until she'd tried to eat her mother's razor, but House simply removed that from Rachel's grasp and put that away where she couldn't reach it.

Getting ready, back in the pre-relationship days, had taken House less than twenty minutes. He'd throw on some random shirt and jeans, pick whatever shoes he wanted, eat some grub, brush his teeth, and go. He preferred bathing at night.

However, Cuddy didn't like House coming to bed after a bath and dampening the sheets and pillowcase and blanket, and so he'd switched to taking his baths (he absolutely refused to take a shower, despite the fact Cuddy said it saved time and water in order to shower. Something about the environment and that she'd gotten a shower mat and a shower chair but House preferred baths even if they took more time) in the morning, which was never all that fun for him considering he rarely went to sleep before two. It wasn't that he purposely stayed awake that long; he just literally was not tired.

Normally this wouldn't have bothered him, except that Cuddy was so damn adamant on him having a 'normal' sleeping schedule because it wasn't healthy to stay awake long past midnight, but sleeping pills didn't work half the time and warm milk was disgusting.

At any rate, Cuddy normally went into work earlier than he did, which meant in the mornings he took care of Rachel which he had expected of course but it wasn't an easy change to make.

He'd moved into her apartment after a month, but it wasn't what most people thought. He still paid his apartment utilities and rent, but seeing as Cuddy had started asking him to come over early in the mornings to watch Rachel, so that the nanny wouldn't have to come in until later, it just made sense for him to spend the night. Which turned into her clearing out a drawer and eventually him bringing over most of his clothes and toiletries.

It had been gradual, he supposed, and seeing as Stacy had moved in with him after a week, it wasn't necessarily fast by his standards. Wilson had seemed to think otherwise, despite the fact Sam had moved in a month into their relationship as well. Once House pointed that out to him, Wilson had sputtered, turned pink, and left his office with House scowling at his friend's retreating back.

After bathing, he would then get dressed, letting Rachel either rest on the mattress or wander around the room while he picked out his clothes and tie.

Yes, tie.

Out of all the changes, that was the newest. Apparently doctors were supposed to dress professionally, since everybody knew that if a doctor didn't wear a tie he obviously knew nothing about diagnosing colds in the clinic or some other such nonsense. Cuddy had been talking to some boring billionaire who wished to altruistically get a tax break by donating large sums of money to the hospital. Being a teaching hospital, Cuddy realized that they needed as many donations as possible but apparently the wonderful specimen of republican that had spent a few days looking around had decided to give his money away elsewhere because the Dean of Medicine was dating a doctor who didn't dress professionally.

Since people can be judged by the company they kept (which explained why Wilson was indeed a complete jackass with hygienic problems and an excellent taste in ties . . . Oh, wait . . .) Cuddy lost her money and therefore took it out on him and she'd shouted at him about why she'd decided to try and keep their relationship secret, or at least only news to their friends (Wilson) but House had calmly and diplomatically told her (re: yelled) that he was not about to treat their relationship like some filthy taboo. And so she'd insisted he start wearing a tie to work.

He drew the line at French shoes and slacks. That was just too far. If she wanted to date Wilson then she should've jumped that bandwagon when she had the chance. She could've been happily divorced by now if she'd wanted.

So for the past week he'd been donning a tie over a button-up shirt. Of course, he still refused to wear a lab coat and wandered around with jeans and obnoxiously loud Nikes, and the ties, so far, made Cuddy cluck her tongue and purse her lips at his chest, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered.

After getting dressed, he usually checked the fridge to see what Cuddy decided to leave him for breakfast (Wilson she was not and he wondered if the kosher thing really mattered if he was dating a vegan) and it was usually dissatisfying (like a yogurt and a piece of fruit, which really didn't curb his hunger any) but he ate it, then wasted Taub's money on a vending machine snack when he got to work. Today he'd decided to forgo the breakfast because he'd taken a bite out of a vegan sandwich (tomatoes, some weird sauce, lettuce, mushrooms, his dignity) and decided it tasted like crap, so he'd tossed it in the bin and mentally told himself to get something in drive-thru because Taub would probably avoid him in the lobby for the next few weeks.

So he'd brushed his teeth and decided to shave, another new habit in the Life of Fixing Greg House, and the rest, as they would say if this were worth noting, was history.

He watched Rachel stare defiantly at him through the mirror, her face turning red from holding her breath, and he stared at her reflection, too. He wasn't Cuddy, who would've ran to her side as soon as her cheeks puffed out.

In fact, he calmly walked over to her, stared her down, and folded his arms, thigh still screeching in pain, cheek still stinging slightly while she stared up at him, eyes swimming with tears.

She passed out, and House caught her as she fell. Her body's natural instincts took over and she started breathing, and he carried her to the living room, limping the entire way, and placed her on the blanket he'd laid on the floor. Her big eyes opened just as he managed to stand and she started wailing. "Dammit, Rachel, can't you _stop_ crying for _one minute?" _he growled and rubbed his thigh.

There was no way he'd be able to drive with his leg in the state it was now, not to mention the fact lack of sleep made his vision a little blurry. House had always hated mornings-Wilson could attest to that-but he especially hated mornings with a child.

It was seven-thirty, which meant he had a half-hour until he had to leave if he wanted to make it to work on time. He had to stay until the nanny showed, and she usually didn't come until about seven-fifty (which was ten minutes before she absolutely needed to, so he was grateful) and so he whipped out his cell-phone while Rachel continued crying and stared.

He could call Cuddy and see if she could leave to pick him up, which would be the first time he'd asked her to drive him to work, or he could call Wilson, whom he hadn't called since he and Cuddy had started dating.

Or he could brave the pain and drive to work, his thigh aching and chirping noisily in agony.

Rachel sobbed theatrically, not even bothering to fake a few tears, the half-muted television babbled something cutesy while colourful shapes danced on screen, and House stared at his open phone as his stomach rumbled.

All in all, it was a typical day in the life of Gregory House.

* * *

Every morning Wilson woke up, didn't have any problems with waking Sam who slept beside him, and showered while she cooked, if it was her turn. They alternated meals-every other day she would cook breakfast and he would cook the dinner, except on Saturdays when it was fend-for-yourself day, and date night for the evening. It worked for them. Schedules always worked for them.

Today it was Sam's turn to cook breakfast and although she wasn't as good as Wilson, she wasn't bad, either. So he woke her with a lazy good morning kiss, not long enough to get sidetracked, and took his shower. Sam showered in the evenings, which freed him up to shower in the mornings. She didn't mope or complain about his hairdryer or steal half his breakfast while they ate, either.

Since carpooling saved gas and money (and the environment, he supposed) after their morning rituals of eating, brushing teeth, getting dressed, and doing their hair, Wilson would drive Sam to work, drop her off, and then go to the hospital. They woke early enough so they wouldn't be late if they decided to have some early-morning sex, but they didn't always and today was one of those days, so instead Sam made a light-hearted comment about him joining her at the table when he habitually sat on the couch to watch muted infomercials.

Despite the both of them deciding that him being more open about his annoyances helping them, Wilson often let things slide that had House done it, he wouldn't have. It wasn't anything worth mentioning anyway and it didn't cause any problems, but even though Sam had insisted she'd wished they'd had that argument nearly twenty years ago (he hadn't corrected her erroneous math; then again, they'd had some emotional ex-sex twelve years ago but decided to forgo a relationship-perhaps that was what she was referencing) she had abruptly left the last time he'd raised his voice to her and so he didn't want to chance it again. That wasn't to say they never got a little snappy towards each other or had discussions, but they didn't argue. Not like they had that day over the banana peel.

Sam almost always picked up after herself. Well, she often forgot to use a coaster and he knew he should have told her that books or magazines were not a substitute, but she never left her dirty clothes on the floor or wet towels beside the tub so he allowed it to slide. She always did the dishes on her night (which wasn't all that difficult since they had a dishwasher) and she didn't watch the TV at obnoxiously loud levels well past midnight, or play a guitar or an organ all night long. She didn't hoard the TiVo list or wake him up in the middle of the night to ask him if there was a deeper meaning to Mojo Jojo or some sort of psychological aspect behind Blossom's colour of clothes.

All in all, life was . . . good.

"We'll need to pick up my dry-cleaning today," Wilson stated as he situated his tie in the mirror so it wasn't askew.

Sam spat toothpaste in the sink. "Okay."

It was domestic. It was the life every man dreamt of. They weren't married (_yet,_ grumbled an Inner House who scowled and impaled some food with a fork) but even if they never decided to go through that again, what they had now was good and normal and . . . boring.

Wilson wasn't naïve. He knew that all relationships lost the fireworks and the explosions and melted into domesticity. That was life. And really, Sam was everything he should want-_did_ want. When he thought of the perfect marriage, what he dreamt of all three times he'd walked down the aisle, this had been the moment he'd anticipated.

He remembered House and him living together. Domestic, yes. Routine . . . Well, for them, yes. Boring?

He shook his head, forcing that thought away. He couldn't remember the last time he and House had actually _talked._ They sent a few emails, left a comment or two on each other's facebook (House's always bordering on odd, random, and hilarious, spawning ridiculous conversations between them for dozens to read and leave "wtf?" responses of their own) but an actual conversation?

It had been awhile since they'd had lunch together. He often had lunch with Sam, and on the few occasions House had joined them it had been brief because House would get bored and leave, and then he'd started having lunch with Cuddy . . . He'd been taking more patients, most likely also due to Cuddy, and any time they did talk it was either a quick, two-or-three minute hello, a brief catching up in the hallway, or a consult.

Most of the "is it cancer?" consults were very obviously not, and Wilson indulged him simply because he knew what House was doing and didn't blame him.

Just like how he had locked his office door every single time he'd come in to find House sleeping on his couch, drool on the side of his lip. Nobody would go in to wake House, and Wilson could find someplace else to do his paperwork. Unless, of course, he had a meeting, in which case he had to wake House, but House never seemed to mind. There had been a few times Wilson just quietly did his paperwork to the sounds of House breathing until he had to do his rounds and when he returned, House had disappeared, probably to hide from clinic duty.

That seemed to be slowly dissipating. Not the sleeping-which tended to happen more often-but the hiding.

It wasn't that he didn't want to hang out with House, but he'd been so busy with his caseload and Sam and House had Rachel and Cuddy and his own patients to deal with that they had been drifting. Wilson had choked on his coffee the first time House came to work without stubble, and it had shocked him how old he'd looked. House didn't look very pleased with the situation, and so Wilson had resolutely not mentioned it at all.

"Notice anything different?" House had asked two days later.

Wilson had stared directly at his chin, hummed, then went; "Losing weight?"

They'd laughed. That had been their entire conversation.

Sam was great and just what he should want, and he really, really didn't dislike his life with her, but he would be an idiot to try and convince himself that something wasn't lacking.

"I was thinking," he began, smoothing down his chartreuse tie, "that maybe I should invite House out tonight."

She turned a look to him. "I thought you said you needed to pick up your dry-cleaning?"

"Well, I can do that before. Or after."

She rinsed her toothbrush and spat out the excess saliva and toothpaste. He wasn't an idiot; she was just buying time. Although she had always claimed to like House well enough and had always been kind around him, and while she'd never flat-out said anythin cruel when he wasn't around, Wilson wasn't an idiot. The lack of House in the loft had cheered her considerably, and whenever he brought up one of House's patients she quickly averted the subject, or got a plastered smile on her face that people faked when they weren't really interested but wanted to look like they were listening.

"Well, it could be like a double date. I'm sure Lisa would enjoy a night away from Rachel," she said, smiling sweetly at him.

It wasn't exactly what Wilson had wanted. He'd wanted a night with just him and House. He'd gone out with other married couples (or dating couples) when he was with Sam the first time, and with Bonnie, and with Julie. It wasn't that he hated those nights, and the evening with the transsexual hooker wouldn't have been too bad if not for the fact House had obviously been bored and saddened and distressed, plugging his ears against the happily conversing dates. Were House here, he would probably say something about double dates only serving to one-up each other on cutest, most loving relationship, and he doubted House would like spending time with Sam.

Then he remembered the few disastrous double-dating experiences he's had with Bonnie, Stacy, and House, and he very nearly chuckled. "I'll talk to him about it," he promised, figuring it was at least something, and then his cell-phone rang.

He knew who it was before he glanced at the caller-ID. "Speak of the devil," he said, smiling thinly at name Evil Bastard that House had changed his name to ages ago, and answered the phone, turning away from Sam and walking out of the bathroom. "Hey," he greeted and grinned far wider than he should have, but considering he hadn't actually talked to House on the phone for a long while, he couldn't help himself.

He was used to random phone calls at three in the morning. Now he was lucky if he heard House complain about inconsistencies on a soap opera, of all things.

"Could you . . . ?" he asked quietly.

He didn't beat around the bush, and Wilson had had enough of these calls to understand just what that meant. Rachel giggled insanely somewhere in the background, and he heard obnoxious singing that was probably from the television.

"Yeah," he answered sincerely.

There was a beat of silence, then House let out a sigh. "Okay."

They both hung up and he turned to see Sam in the doorframe of their bathroom with her eyebrows raised. "We need to pick up House. He can't drive when his leg's . . ." he trailed of when he saw Sam purse her lips for the briefest second, then smiled falsely and nodded.

House had, once again, screwed up Wilson's routine. He really didn't mind.

* * *

In the end, House had called Wilson. Of course. He was sure nobody was surprised at the information, but the Ibuprofen had barely dented his throbbing thigh muscle. Cuddy had talked to him a few times about taking up physical therapy again but he'd flat-out refused, every time. House could walk. It hurt, but he could do it, and he'd be damned before he got his hopes up at ever being able to live pain-free again. The ketamine treatment failed, the physical therapy hadn't taken away the pain the first time, and even though living with Wilson had soothed the pain somewhat, eventually that had fallen through.

Oh, the pain hadn't disappeared. Of course not. Anybody who thought that was either an idiot or in denial. But it had been far more manageable, and even if the Ibuprofen was weak in comparison, he hadn't had to do the mental checklist; hadn't needed to find the exact amount to take so he wouldn't slip by numb and vaguely hazy and barrel right into unfathomably high. He hadn't needed to check his eyes every morning, and although his thigh hurt, it hadn't been nearly as painful. But soon enough that had stopped, the pain had amplified, and nobody seemed to notice.

Complaining about his leg got no sympathy from Cuddy, who either didn't believe or didn't _want_ to believe that he had chronic pain. Even Wilson hadn't been foolish enough to assume the pain had dissipated entirely and when House exerted himself more than usual, Wilson always had a remark ready, teeming with thinly-veiled concern.

But that was okay. Wilson was too much of an enabler. House needed someone stubborn. Someone who wouldn't give in so easily. He wasn't happy with who he was and he wanted to change; wanted to be _happy._ He just wished she wasn't so damn blind to the fact that his leg really was in pain; wished she hadn't thrown the fact he'd crawled under carnage and wreckage to get to Hannah in his face and left his cane behind the first time she'd spotted him taking more Ibuprofen sooner than deemed necessary. He'd been obsessed with finding out the noise he'd heard; focused on yet another puzzle. It dulled the pain, although not as much as he'd hoped. As for the cane-he'd taken Hannah's leg and perhaps it was his self-destructive, self-loathing half that made him decide that give up his, too. He deserved the pain.

Had he decided to amputate his leg, would he have died too? Would he have been happier? Or would he have been resentful and angry and just as pissed off at the world as he was now, prosthetic leg or otherwise? He'd been a better, happier person before and now he was just some shell of his former self; he didn't deserve that cane, not when he'd taken away Hannah's limb; her life. Right?

Wilson would've seen right through it. Wilson would have asked about his leg, put his hands on his hips, and lectured about him careening right into the danger of collapsed rubble with no concern for his own safety.

He sighed. This was what he wanted and needed, so he should stop bitching. He was just having a bad morning was all, and if things were going to get better he needed to have a more positive outlook.

He scoffed at how ridiculous that sounded in his own head. Hell, a few months ago, who would choked on laughter at anyone who so much as suggested he'd be pursuing elusive happiness by trying to change. He hadn't been happy, though. Had he?

He rubbed his thigh in thought while Rachel shrieked in delight and then began laughing so hard he wondered if she was going to pass out from lack of oxygen again.

There were a few quick raps on the door and he recognized them with a sigh. He walked lopsidedly to the door and pulled it open to see Rachel's nanny, dark eyes bright but with the air of exhaustion. "Hola, Mister House," she greeted before brushing by him, her accented English not nearly as bad as it could've been.

She was legal, of course; Cuddy would never be so irresponsible to hire someone who'd hopped the border.

Rachel squealed and got on her feet, hurriedly tottering over to the nanny. House felt nauseous and then a surge of something not unlike annoyance when the nanny greeted her in Spanish. He didn't blame her; Spanish was her native tongue and she had only been in the States for three years; any chance she could speak comfortably she would, as would he in her situation. Still, the look on Cuddy's face when Rachel had started singing head, shoulders, knees and toes in Spanish flashed through his mind.

"I need to have a chit-chat with you," he said abruptly, grabbing his cane from off the wall he'd leant it and pushing towards her. "I'm gonna have to ask you to cut down on the Spanish when you're watching Rachel."

The nanny looked at him liked he'd smacked her. "Sir, I meant no disrespect." He knew she was a little miffed because she'd called him 'sir.' Until that point, he'd always been 'Mister House.'

"I know that and hey, she rolls her R's better than most teenagers. _Lisa,"_ and he hated how awkward that word sounded in his mouth, "is having difficulty with that fact Rachel doesn't make sense to her half the time. She doesn't speak Spanish and it's making her feel like an unfit mother, do you catch me?" Although the words weren't necessarily harsh, the lack of proper sleep and the start of what was to be sure a horrible day tinged his tone with the annoyance he wasn't going to bother to hide.

She looked downwards in shame and were he a better man, he might have felt guilty for making her feel that way. But he wasn't, and so he didn't care; his girlfriend meant more to him than the nanny who watched Rachel when he and Cuddy were gone and when Cuddy was unhappy, House's mood was sure to follow.

To be fair, his mornings weren't always this bad. There were times Rachel was still too tired to complain and he got to sleep in, and she was very cooperative during her bath. Sometimes they watched mindless cartoons together. Sometimes he tried to teach her to say long and complicated-sounding diseases. But that was as close as they'd ever gotten to bonding or whatever Cuddy called it in the back of her head. More like indifference with a side of amusement. Most of the time, he got the distinct impression Rachel didn't like him, which Cuddy had told him multiple times was completely ridiculous. She was a _baby;_ she didn't dislike anyone.

House never did try to point out that Rachel was a toddler, not a baby.

As for Rachel's relationship with her mother, it really wasn't all that bad. She brightened up when Cuddy walked through the door; they hugged, and Rachel tried to explain something that probably made sense in her infantile mind. She could string sentences together sometimes; half-coherent sentences. Mostly, though, she just talked to prove she could. Rachel knew more than she let on but Cuddy responded more when she babbled. Probably because then she wouldn't worry about how she'd missed much of Rachel growing up while she was at work. Rachel instinctively did what she knew Cuddy responded better towards. Such was life.

House opened the fridge to get a bottled water and scowled at the gallon of soy milk beside it.

The next succession of knocks was also familiar to House and he actually smiled so briefly he wondered if he'd only thought he'd smiled and he shut the fridge and limped to the door, bottled water in one hand and cane in the other.

"Buh-buh, Hoss!" Rachel called and House's chest did something strange that wasn't necessarily pleasant, but it wasn't unpleasant, either. Something felt strange about that; strange in a not-quite-good way, but maybe that was just the suddenness of it or maybe something in the back of his mind clicked and he'd have to figure out what later.

He opened the door, pushing out and past Wilson, who was standing there with a grin on his face like he'd expected a hug or something else unlikely to ever happen.

"Nuclear holocaust?" Wilson asked, raising his eyebrows at House's brisk walk.

"Had to have a little discussion with the no habla anglais," he muttered, the car looming like a safe haven on a dark, stormy night, and although it wasn't technically a lie, he couldn't think of any other reason he felt slightly unnerved. Then he saw the soft curls of blonde in the front seat and he couldn't help but scoff and snarl. "What the hell, Wilson?" he muttered, jutting his chin in the direction of Sam, who was casually looking through the windshield and not at them as they made their way to the car.

"I drive her to work every morning," he explained. "We'll have to drop her off before we go to work."

"Can we stop by McDonald's first?" he asked, climbing into the backseat, right behind Sam. He moved to slam the door shut but Wilson's grip on the top stopped him. Wilson quirked his eyebrows in question. "Breakfast was unsatisfactory," House explained, then tugged the door again and this time there was no resistance.

Sam waited until Wilson had started the car and had pulled away from the curb to say; "You look nice today."

House and Wilson met eyes in the rear view mirror. House refused to say thank you, but he did grunt to show he'd heard her.

"I guess Lisa's really shaping you up," she commented with a cheery little tone.

Wilson's eyes left the rear-view mirror. House stared at his lap.


	2. Chapter 2

**Revision:** much thanks to thelettermanv, who is known as dissonata on LJ.

Chapter Two

House sat at his desk, holding his giant ball to his lips, pressing his mouth against it. Clinic. He _hated_ clinic. However, he did enjoy sex, and Cuddy, that damnably attractive wanton woman, knew how to play her cards just right. Were he an evil overlord with bouncy breasts who actually cared about trivial things such as sniffling children and diarrhoea, he would've probably done the same thing.

So he sat in his chair in jeans, a white button-up shirt that remained untucked, which he honestly thought looked better, and a tie. Sure, it was a Rolling Stones tie, with the trademark lips and tongue lolling out, but a tie nonetheless. Even if his cuffs were unbuttoned, it still didn't detract from the fact he'd just returned from clinic duty. With a tie.

He let out a harsh sigh and smacked his thinking ball on the desk top. Really, it wasn't so bad, otherwise he wouldn't still be doing this. He was just having a bad day considering Rachel's bad mood and Cuddy being irritable. She'd been unhappy with the fact House and Wilson had strolled in ten minutes late and when House had explained in her office why (that his leg had been acting up-he forgot to mention it was Rachel that had body slammed him) she seemed to be irritated with the fact he'd called Wilson instead. When he'd explained that he knew she was busy with the board meeting, she'd blinked slowly at him then said; "I was meeting with that potential donor, House. I told you that three times this last night."

He didn't admit that she was right, and that she had even reminded him they were having dinner with him that night, because he just wasn't the type of guy who admitted he was in the wrong, no matter how much she wanted that from him. He didn't get around to the fact that budget meetings, donors, and Dean of Medicine stuff bored the hell out of him so it was no wonder he forgot or that he missed Wilson so of course he'd called him. He did, however, make a snide comment when she scoffed at his tie, as she usually did. Just because he was going to wear ties didn't mean he was going to walk in like some sort of . . . _Wilson._

Speaking of Wilson, the door swished open and House glanced at the time on his computer monitor. It was eleven-thirty. Almost lunch. They hadn't had lunch in a long while. In fact, the closest thing to a conversation they'd had recently was House acting like his obvious not-cancer patient had paraneoplastic syndrome and he was sure Wilson wasn't stupid enough to think House was actually telling the truth, but hey, he had wanted to mock his putrid tie and Wilson still didn't say anything about the one around House's neck. He did glance at it, though. And other than the gobbled Egg McMuffin in the car after Sam had been dropped off, they hadn't had a passable lunch together in what seemed like years although it was really only weeks.

Except for a brief hesitation where Wilson looked around his office quickly and half-heartedly, as if looking for any difference and finding none, he didn't stop to go over and plop in his seat, idly playing with the end of his chartreuse tie and the only reason House knew the name of the colour was because Wilson saw fit to correct him when he first wore it and House said; "God, what colour is that? Pissed in pea soup or what?" House would've wondered why the hell Wilson knew the colour except that Wilson knew things that no straight man should, such as what culottes were.

"What's up?" House asked.

Wilson shrugged. "Nothing. You, uh . . . nicked yourself shaving."

"No shit, Sherlock," he replied.

Wilson smiled softly. "So . . . I bought you something," he informed, reaching into the deep pocket of his lab-coat. He revealed a rectangular-shaped gift, wrapped in green. The same wrapping paper as the Christmas gift he'd decided not to open. He slid it across his desk slowly and House watched it warily. He'd seen that shape of present before, just not for him.

House continued staring at it for a few seconds, then pushed it aside. "I'll open it later."

Wilson scoffed. "I'm not falling for that again, House. Just open it."

He sighed and jerked it to him, ignoring that fact that the wrapping paper was the exact same shade of the green tie that made Wilson look pretty, and was unsurprised to find, inside the rectangular box, a tie of his very own. "You shouldn't have," he gushed. Wilson lowered his eyes, staring at his fingers that idly tugged on the ends and shook his head. "No, really. You shouldn't have," he insisted, then pulled out the tie.

"Well, I figure it won't be too long until you grow tired of the Rolling Stones and Daffy Duck."

House rolled his eyes but held his gift and analyzed it. The ties he'd come to work in were all childish or obnoxious. His favourite so far had been covered in flames-a tie Wilson had bought for him years ago for some inexplicable reason-but this tie was far from ridiculous. It wasn't covered in lightning, jumbled words, cartoon characters, or trademarked band logos. It was silk and slightly thinner than most ties, and it was a deep burgundy but when the light hit it the colour shone an almost cherry colour. It was a beautiful tie, really; a waste to give it to a man who didn't want to wear it.

He didn't give his thanks, and he doubted Wilson expected it. He just put it back in the box. "What's the occasion?"

"Reminded me of you," Wilson explained with a one-armed shrug, eyes still focusing on his fingers that danced along the edges of his stupid piss-green noose. The colour itself was muted but bright; smart, eye-catching colour, but not worth a second glance. Wilson bought the ugly tie for himself, yet the tie he bought for House was far better.

"Ties remind you of me? God, have I really changed _that_ much?" he asked with a scowl.

Wilson laughed and met House's eyes; the first time since the rear-view mirror, which had been the first time in . . . well, since he kicked House out of the loft. "Not really, but if you were a tie-wearing man, that would be the one."

"Cuddy talked to you. She doesn't like my ties," House accused.

Wilson snorted. "No, she didn't talk to me. You started wearing ties, I figured Cuddy had something to do with it . . ."

"Did you buy it for me or her?" he asked and he didn't mean to sound so irritated but he didn't mind the fact that he did.

"It reminded me of you. I bought it for you."

"It's a far cry from the flames."

"You're wearing ties and moving in with Cuddy; _you're_ a far cry from flames," Wilson responded calmly and matter-of-factly and House realized it wasn't meant as an insult-just truth. His eyes moved away from House's and focused on his lap and finally stopped fidgeting with his tie. "It's bold. It's . . . interesting. It's you."

He sighed and nodded slowly. He doubted he would ever find an excuse to wear it, unless he had to don a tux and watch Sam walk down the aisle, all aglow with momentary marital bliss.

"So did you want to get lunch?" Wilson offered after a long silence, eyes meeting his fleetingly.

"You're buying," he stated, knowing that at least that wouldn't have changed as he pushed out of his chair and grabbed his cane.

"Naturally," Wilson agreed and stood.

As they both moved to leave the room at the same time, their shoulders knocked roughly and they both looked at each other. They moved to leave the door simultaneously a second time and bumped again, and Wilson laughed nervously and House felt something in his gut churn before Wilson made a sweeping gesture with his, indicating House should go first and he did. They had never had this problem before he gradually-yet-accidentally moved in with Cuddy one month ago-something that Wilson had hypocritically been upset over; as if he hadn't kicked his best friend out to make room for his sociopath of an ex-wife; as if their relationship would work anymore than it did last time.

For some reason there was enough space between them for a second person to walk which, while not completely and utterly mind-blowingly strange, did send a jolt right to House's chest. Actually, when the elevator door pinged open and they walked into the empty space, he noticed the gap was actually larger than he had originally thought. Enough to fit two people. Generally, they walked close enough where, even if their arms or hands weren't brushing, someone could not walk between them. Now, they stood on opposite sides of the elevator, Wilson folding his arms and looking at the numbers atop the silver doors, and House stared at his brand-new shiny cane-a simple wooden thing, the colour of soft gold, shiny with some sort of lacquer, and remembered leaving his cane at the crash site as penance for taking Hannah's leg, or hell, maybe in remembrance. He didn't deserve to walk with assistance if she couldn't-not when he hadn't allowed her to choose what he would've done.

It wouldn't have mattered either way but now he wasn't so sure he should've ripped off her limb. Better to die whole than incomplete with the false hope of actually making it through.

"_If you can crawl through the wreckage of the site for Hannah, Greg, I don't think you need to be taking that many pills so soon after your last batch."_

Sometimes he was House. Other times he was Greg. She was always Cuddy in his mind, whether or not her given name slipped out during conversation. He didn't know why that bothered her so much considering that Wilson had never been James to him, either.

"Wilson," he began with no actual idea of what he wanted to say.

Wilson looked over at him, brown eyes wide with interest. He hummed in question and House furrowed his eyes, eyeing the distance. Wilson shifted awkwardly when House stared at him again and then tilted his head, staring at the floor.

"House-" Wilson started at the same House said; "I just-"

They both shut up awkwardly and House eyed the distance again.

House tried to remember the last time they were in an elevator together and felt sick when he failed.

The look on Wilson's face mirrored the sickening dread in House's stomach, and the doors opened. They both left, House timing it purposely so they had to squeeze out together with their shoulders pushing and grinding, but when they left they took up the normal distance between two colleagues-enough for a third person to stand comfortably between them and still have a foot of space on either side of whoever the third person was.

"I was thinking," Wilson said as he pushed open the door for House, allowing him to walk into the cafeteria first, "that you and I should get together tonight. Do something."

"Well, I don't normally put out this soon, but if you're really lucky you might get a kiss on the porch," he quipped, but only to cover up the awkwardness of the realization of just how distant they'd become. Brief head-nods in greeting and an email sent once or twice a week did not constitute a friendship, considering that their offices were so damn close.

Wilson brushed by him, standing in front of him in the lunch line, and smiled, turning his head so House could only see his profile as he piled more fries than was strictly necessary onto his plate. "So, am I to take that as a yes?"

"It's a date," he stated and Wilson glanced at him long enough to smile.

* * *

Clinic duty, whilst never the most exhilarating part of his day, did not irritate Wilson as much as it irritated House, so he didn't spend the better part of his day hiding in his office or other people's patients' rooms. Then again, lately, although House hadn't completely given up on avoiding work (because he most assuredly did avoid it) he was doing his hours a bit more frequently than was strictly necessary. In fact, the on-duty nurse had commented on it vaguely a few times and when House did manage to lock himself away Cuddy didn't look for him because he had appeased her for the time being.

Then again, if House had ceased all impromptu hide-and-seek games, Wilson wouldn't know because they hadn't been very close lately-but all that would be remedied, hopefully, after tonight. He wasn't naïve enough to think all would be put right and they would be able to be as close as they were, seeing as they were both dating at the moment, but they could at least get back to some version of normalcy. Something more than this relationship they had somehow dwindled into where they were just colleagues with a past.

If anybody noticed that they were drifting apart nobody said anything about it. He was sure Sam had noticed it, as Cuddy most likely did as well (granted, Cuddy probably noticed it more) but Sam probably didn't mind the fact. It wasn't that he thought Sam hated House by any means but he knew she disliked him more than she let on, seeing as whenever Wilson spoke about him she got a disinterested expression or anything she said was sickly sweet, as if in an ironic way. It did bother him, as it always had with his other girlfriends or wives, but he also knew House was an acquired taste and he couldn't expect them to adore his best friend.

When he walked into his office, he wasn't entirely surprised to see House lying on his couch, ankles crossed on the arm, Wilson's coat stuffed underneath his head, one arm dropped to the floor and the other was across his abdomen, lips parted slightly and a small bit of drool hanging by the side of his mouth. His cane was leant against Wilson's desk and Wilson just shook his head, removing his lab-coat which he normally would've hung up on the coat rock, but instead draped it over House, despite knowing that it couldn't have warmed him that much. The fabric was too thin.

House smacked his lips together tiredly and made a sleepy little moan, and Wilson stared at his clean-shaven face. It didn't seem possible that it could make him look simultaneously old and young at the same time. He hovered for a moment, just standing above his best friend, then sighed and returned to his desk, sitting at his desk quietly and pulling up a pen.

He contemplated locking the door and doing his work elsewhere, but for some reason he just didn't feel like it. He wanted to be there when House woke up, like some sort of reassurance that they were okay. Anyway, House wasn't so annoying when he was silent. He was looking forward to their night out together and even if House would just brush it off and act nonchalant, he knew he was looking forward to it too. And neither of them were dumb enough to deny that things had changed and not for the better-it had been awkward between them in the elevator, and even if they wouldn't verbally admit it, they both knew it was there.

When he stared at House, sleeping on his couch like a toddler, it almost felt like nothing had changed. This hadn't really changed; not really. House used to commandeer his couch to sleep on the nights his leg kept him up all night or when insomnia attacked him so that he puttered through the loft, watching television and playing piano and waking Wilson up to pester him. Of course, now that House didn't live with him he didn't have to deal with Mozart swelling into the night, drifting over him and enveloping him like a blanket; didn't have to hear House's deep chuckle at something inane muttered on the television; didn't have to think about what sort of superpowers they would have had heroes and villains existed.

Wilson had to remind himself that not dealing with those situations was a good thing.

He scribbled his signature quickly then rubbed his hand over his face. House made some sort of sleepy noise and he glanced upwards to watch him shift slightly. His Rolling Stones tie twisted awkwardly around his throat, like it was trying to strangle him, and the sleeve of the arm across his abdomen was pushed halfway up his forearm and his untucked shirt had ridden up his stomach an inch. Only a sliver of skin was visible.

Wilson looked at his paperwork and started reading about finances; about new chemotherapy treatments; about House's unbuttoned cuffs. Actually, he didn't read anything about cuffs. He was just suddenly staring at them.

Actually, if he were to be honest, House slept on his couch more often now than he did before. He had fake cancer consults, too. Obviously House noticed the detachment as well and Wilson had noticed it a long time ago but the problem was the both of them had separate lives from each other now; not only did Wilson live with his girlfriend, but so did House. Not only did they have stressful jobs that took a lot of work (although it had never stopped House before, except House had steadily begun to work more often) but House also had a toddler to take care of in the morning after Cuddy left.

When Wilson tried to imagine House weaving a spoonful of food through the air making airplane noises, he scrunched up his face. He felt guilty for not being able to imagine House tickling Rachel, or them reading large books together, or going through their ABC's . . . He sighed. It was horrible but it didn't compute and the fact he couldn't see it made Wilson feel like such a terrible friend.

The door opened like a cannon blast, which Wilson knew was a hyperbole, and Cuddy walked in. "Wilson have you seen-"

He pressed his finger to his lips and shushed, gesturing at House with his chin.

Cuddy looked at House and there was a brief smile on her face, and then she rolled her eyes irritably. "If he takes a nap now he won't be able to sleep tonight and then he'll be up all night an-"

"He's not an infant," Wilson told her calmly.

She folded her arms and raised a thin eyebrow at him, the amused arch coming off as almost smug. "And how long have you known House?"

Wilson felt something odd stir in his chest that wasn't exactly a great feeling and swallowed. "All right, so he's infantile, but he's always taken naps in the middle of the afternoon-or day-or, well, evening . . ." He blinked rapidly for a few moments, the he shook his head. "This is just House."

Cuddy bit down on her bottom lip and sighed, chest heaving and she nodded as if accepting that she had just lost her job. Then she rubbed her eyes and delicately plopped on the chair reserved for his patients. "How do you do it?"

"Well, normally one closes one's eyes and relaxes-"

"Wilson," she warned, icy eyes locked onto his.

He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. "It takes time, Cuddy. There is no one way to . . . Why are we talking about this?"

"You're right. I shouldn't . . . I mean, you two were never . . . together," she brushed aside with a small headshake.

Despite the fact he knew what Cuddy meant, it still irked him that she would brush what they had away simply because they'd never been romantic. "Well, no, we were never-I mean, we're just friends. We're-we're not gay. But, even still, that doesn't mean that-well, it's not that we don't-we're still _close._ We're still _friends._ It just-I mean, we've known each other for years. I know you two met before we did, but I've still known him longer. I'm going to know things that, well, you wouldn't."

She pressed her fingers lightly to her temple and nodded slowly. "How do you . . ." She gestured vaguely, then tilted her head. "I mean, it's great. Being with House. Really. It's just . . . Sometimes he gets . . . moody."

"A moody House. Stop the presses; that's headline news." Cuddy lowered her chin at him and he recognized that 'I am not amused' expression seeing as it was usually on his own face and generally directed at House. He couldn't remember the last time he and Cuddy had talked, but he had a feeling it had something to do with furniture. It had seemed that once House was out of her life and she'd started dating Lucas, she had no need of Wilson. Once she had House, she hadn't talked to Wilson as if . . . Well, she didn't need him.

He'd always known that the common denominator between him and Cuddy had been House. It still didn't mean he was pleased with the fact that once she got what she wanted, she had no need of him anymore. It was only when she wanted help with House that spoke with him. Like always.

"Cuddy, look . . . House is going to be House. There is no cure-all to make him more . . . I don't know; presentable? What exactly do you want?"

"This isn't about him being presentable, Wilson," she stated and she almost sounded irritated. "I need him to be happy. I'm not saying he's miserable, but there are times . . . I don't know what to do. And when he's upset, he's less likely to . . . play nice."

"Play nice," he repeated and blinked once. "You want him to . . . ?" She stared openly at him and he saw the desperate need reflected in her eyes; the eyes of a woman who thought she might be losing someone she cared about; the eyes he'd seen in his reflection recently for some reason and he'd recognized only because all of his wives had stared at him like that before. "Macadamia nut pancakes," he answered, then looked down at the paperwork.

"I'm serious," she said and he realized that they were barely speaking in a voice above a whisper.

He blinked at her. "I know. So am I. He loves macadamia nut pancakes. I'm not saying he'll be a right little ray of sunshine, but whenever we have an argument it seems to work." Granted, he didn't only make the pancakes after arguments-he made them when he was in a particularly good mood, or when he wanted the pancakes as well, but a day or two after an argument he always made them as a sort of 'burying the hatchet' deal. He and House would never verbally apologize-well, all right, so it had happened once or twice-so he pretended like he wasn't apologizing when he cooked them and House pretended like sitting through a Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant marathon wasn't torture for him although Wilson knew it was.

"I only ask because, well . . . a potential donor wants to meet with House before he decides so we were in discussion with having a dinner at our place." Wilson hid the fact his brain screeched like a scratched record for a brief moment. Our place. Not too long ago, the loft had been 'our place' when he spoke of it to House. Strange hearing those same words from Cuddy regarding the same man. "I know House doesn't like talking with donors so I . . . wanted to make it up to him."

"So cook him pancakes for breakfast."

"I'll need a recipe," she asked quietly.

It wasn't until Wilson had smiled politely and started inscribing the ingredients that he had a moment of hesitation. His finger stopped just long enough for a small black dot to bleed out on the second G of eggs, and something felt wrong, as if he were betraying a whispered secret of a friend. The moment was brief before he hastily finished the rest of the ingredients.

He pushed it across the desk and she took it, her brows lowered as she read over the ingredients and she looked more upset than pleased. He thought over the ingredients, remembered the milk and eggs, and he sighed. "You can't expect House to live a vegan lifestyle."

She glanced at him. "I don't. I wasn't expecting . . ." She folded the scrap of paper and stared at his desk instead of him. "All this time and it never occurred to me to even ask what he liked to eat."

"He's . . . not a very open guy, Cuddy. Even when you ask, he's . . ."

"You knew."

"I've also slept on his couch, went through the infarction, stood beside him when Stacy left . . . This is just the beginning for you two. What House and I have been through, well . . . you learn a few things."

Cuddy frowned for a moment and there was a flicker of some odd emotion before she smiled briefly. "Thank you, Wilson," she whispered, then stood and brushed off her skirt. She nodded once, then left his office.

The click of his door sounded hollow and almost eerie, despite the fact he'd heard it a thousand times before, and when he looked over at the peacefully napping House, he wondered if Cuddy would ever allow him to sleep on her couch.

* * *

House supposed, considering how the morning started, his day actually hadn't been too bad. Clinic, although absolutely loathsome as per usual, was actually a little less irritating than normal seeing as his third clinic patient had perky breasts, legs that went on for miles, and a completely embarrassing malady (she had a roll of quarters stuck inside her vagina) and he almost paged Wilson for 'help' but then remembered they were both dating someone else and considering the fact she hadn't been wearing a ring but there was a strip of lighter skin, it meant she was recently divorced and despite the amazing tits, House wasn't sure he wanted Wilson to hop from Sam right into Needy Clinic Patient.

However, even if the day could have been worse, it wasn't exactly great, and after some idiotic toddler with a bean shoved in his ear, he'd dragged his tired ass to Wilson's couch and plopped on it with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, and woke up sometime later with the smell of watermelon wafting over him and pens staring innocently at him, seeing as Wilson's pocket had somehow managed to shift right in front of his face. The lab-coat actually did nothing to warm him, although he didn't complain when he sat up and knocked both the lab-coat and the jacket he'd been using as a pillow to the floor.

"Time is it?" he asked sluggishly.

"Four," Wilson answered, and House realized that although this wasn't the first time he'd woken up in Wilson's office, the door locked and the tell-tale signs of Wilson having been in there recently, it was the first time since he'd started dating Cuddy that he'd woken up with Wilson still in the room.

He yawned and stretched, his back popping satisfyingly and when he stretched out his legs, his thigh muscle tightened uncomfortably and almost verged on pain. He hissed a bit when it throbbed dully, and he pressed his palm into his muscle with a slight wince.

Wilson eyed it and raised his eyebrows briefly in question, but didn't say anything.

House almost explained that Rachel had slammed into him, but for some reason decided against it like it would somehow break something precious; like mentioning the recently dead kitten daddy ran over with his car that night at dinner only a few minutes after the daughter finally stopped crying. He grimaced when he thought of fur on his motorbike's wheels, and let out a sigh.

"Don't you have rounds?" House asked when he glanced at his watch and found that it was actually nearer to four-thirty.

Wilson looked away from his paperwork to meet House's eyes. "In a minute," he answered after a brief pause.

House wasn't an idiot and Wilson was always early for his rounds. If he left within the next ten minutes he wouldn't be late, but he always showed up early and talked longer than necessary with his dying cue balls. Since Wilson's head bowed again to stare at his paperwork, House allowed a brief smile that was more of a half-smirk since Wilson couldn't see.

"What time are we going out?" he asked, needing to remind Wilson of the fact they were getting together later before any blonde harpies convinced him otherwise.

"I need to pick up my dry-cleaning before six; if you're not opposed to doing errands with me, we can leave right after work."

"Do we hafta?" he half-whined and although Wilson's head was bowed House could still tell he was smiling.

Wilson finally pushed out of his chair and pointed at the lab-coat House had knocked to the floor. House used his cane to pick it up from the floor and tossed it in the direction of Wilson, who fumbled with it briefly, all of his pens flipping out of his pocket and twisting through the air before thudding to the carpet. Wilson dropped his chin a little and blinked once at him, a thin, almost-annoyed grimace turning into a half-amused smile as he knelt down and picked up the pens, shaking his head at the carpet.

House stood off of the couch while Wilson continued to gather his fallen comrades. Wilson glanced upward to glare good-naturedly at him and House leered. "Well, since you're down there . . ." House said huskily with an over-the-top waggle of his eyebrows.

"Well, I wouldn't want to exacerbate your leg. Besides, I have to get a head start on my rounds," he replied as he stood, slipping into his lab coat with an ease House had never managed to exude, considering he never actually wore the thing. With his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide and open, looking entirely serious, he finished with; "Rain check?"

"Don't make promises you don't intend to keep," House retorted, sounding slightly more serious than he'd intended.

Neither of them froze; they just didn't move. In fact, it wasn't until two seconds later that House realized they were still looking at each other, one step away from each other. Wilson's thin-but-playful smile faded from his face and House tilted his head to the side a bit, as if contemplating a piece of art in front of him.

Wilson cleared his throat and then went to the door, opening it for House. He walked out first and it wasn't until they separated that he realized he felt something in his chest he couldn't quite describe.

* * *

House was surprisingly unobtrusive as he picked up his dry-cleaning and as they stopped by the grocery store. He'd momentarily forgotten he'd given his macadamia nut pancake recipe to Cuddy until, as they had been walking down the aisle, House plucked a bag of macadamia nuts from the shelf and plopped it into the cart, which when he thought about it didn't make much sense seeing as they didn't live together-unless House was planning on staying the night sometime in the future. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking on his part, but Wilson almost felt touched at the thought, until he remembered Cuddy would be the one cooking the pancakes from now on.

He would just have to find something else to cook instead.

However, although House had his cynical-yet-true-and-amusing comments on just about everything, and even asked completely ridiculous questions as if delving into the topic meant all the world to him, he didn't pry, which was . . . strange. He'd been expecting a full-blown analysis of his and Sam's relationship, along with perhaps some bragging with how much better he and Cuddy were doing, and maybe even a thinly-veiled comment about Wilson's philandering ways and an accusation or two.

However, all topics relating to relationships and dating and girlfriends were conspicuously absent. Had he not known better he would assume it just hadn't crossed his mind. However, since he did know better, he knew House was purposely avoiding the topic and he only avoided topics he didn't want to discuss or analyze. Perhaps he was afraid that he and Sam were working out just fine and another marriage was on the way which . . . Well, might not be entirely inaccurate, not that Wilson was planning on proposing anytime soon. Or maybe House just didn't want the questions turned around on him.

House moved in with Cuddy after only a month into their new relationship which, all right, in House's standards wasn't necessarily fast. Stacy had moved in after a week and he hadn't even known her. He'd known Cuddy for ages. Still, though, something didn't feel right about that. Getting up early, taking care of Rachel, wearing ties and shaving and actually working . . .

Maybe Wilson was just jealous because he was willing to do all of those things for Cuddy, but for him he wouldn't have even bothered to pick up his dirty towels from the bathroom floor after he specifically told him not to use his tub. But, the more he thought about it, House pounding away on his organ past midnight, or him camping out in Coma Guy's room with his Game Boy while one of his soaps blared on the television, or even stealing his food hadn't actually been all that irksome.

Shaving and wearing ties didn't change a man any more than donning a black shirt and spiking one's hair out did. However it still felt like something was changing; something _had_ changed. They'd gone from being as close as they had ever been to being practically strangers in two months. The ties weren't to blame and maybe House wasn't entirely different in personality, but something was still off enough for him to feel displeased with the situation.

For once in his life, he actually understood what it was like to be House, watching as his best friend sidled up beside some woman who was completely wrong for him.

Now he was just being unfair. It wasn't for him to decide if Cuddy was wrong for House or not.

After they'd finished Wilson's errands (many complaints from House colouring the event) Wilson didn't bother stopping by the loft. Instead he drove to the nearest diner, they sat in the furthest, darkest booth, and the familiar waitress flounced over to them and bubbled in her practiced flirtatious way that probably earned her outrageous tips.

"Haven't seen you two for awhile," she greeted with a grin. "Want the usual or do you think you'll need some time to discuss your options?" She caught Wilson's eye a bit longer than she caught House's, but he was sure it was only because she knew by then who would be paying.

"I'm in the mood for a change," House murmured, then whipped open the menu.

It wasn't anything dire. House getting bored of the same meal he usually had wasn't anything strange. House often got a new 'usual' especially since he was easily bored. Still, something about it unnerved Wilson and he nodded his agreement at their waitress with a smile.

"I'll be back once you've had time to consider," she promised with a light touch to House's shoulder and she walked away.

Wilson watched House's electric blue eyes dart over the menu. His eyes were similar to Cuddy's-sharp, vivid, blue. He imagined family pictures with a clean-shaven House standing slightly behind Cuddy, right hand clasped over her left shoulder and a five-year-old Rachel standing in front of them, all three of them smiling false smiles, as family pictures always sported, at the camera. He imagined all the perfectly posed and carefully positioned portraits, placed in some sort of pattern along Cuddy's walls. He thought of the plastic-y feel to each picture; the false, fake representations of their lives at home.

Oh, God. He was even starting to _think_ like House.

"How's work?" Wilson asked after his eyes dragged over to his usual, as if magnetized.

"Small talk? Really?" House blurted in a tone of disgust and he dropped the menu to stare at Wilson like one would stare at particularly nasty bug.

Wilson reeled back at the realization. "Wow. I hadn't even-I didn't mean . . ." He shook his head, then let out a long, resigned sigh as he folded his menu and placed it on the table, hands clasped on top. "Why is this so awkward?" he asked finally, unable to verbally ignore it any longer.

"Because small talk sucks," House answered or maybe evaded. It was hard to tell which sometimes. "It's not very fun being on this end of the my-best-buddy's-dating shtick, is it?"

"Ah, yes. I clearly see your motivation now-you dating Cuddy was all an elaborate scheme to get revenge on me for dating Sam." There was a brief pause where they teetered from joking into serious, and Wilson swallowed. "I've been busy, House," he explained, hating how guilty he felt so suddenly at their distance.

"I know," House admitted, his eyes ticking downward and staring at his closed menu.

"With Sam and my caseload, I just haven't-"

House's warm palm pressed against Wilson's knuckles briefly-just long enough for him to feel the pressure and to shut his mouth. _"I know,"_ he repeated firmly.

Although his hand was gone, Wilson's skin was still a little warmer than it should have been.

"Sam approve of our little night out?" House asked, that familiar note of disbelief in his tone. And perhaps a bit of mocking, too.

Wilson should have had a moment of panic where he suddenly remembered Sam had suggested a double-date and that he hadn't called her to inform her of his change in plan. The truth was, though, he hadn't forgotten-he'd just . . . evaded. If he called her to tell her he'd decided to go out with House, alone, he'd have to hear the brief and awkward pause, and the strained questions that followed, tinged with a tone that he knew was supposed to make him feel a little guilty but didn't work, which actually made him feel worse. So, like the fact she often used his books as coasters, he ignored the whole thing.

"We haven't seen each other for awhile, House. I talked to her about it this morning, actually. She was receptive to the idea."

"That's a lengthy yes. Evasion?"

"She wanted to double-date," he answered.

House scowled. "Sounds fun," he murmured sarcastically, although there was a slight curve on the side of his mouth; a tell-tale sign he was attempting to hide a grin. "Who would've won, you think?"

"Me, naturally," he replied with a shrug. "You'd be too busy trying to get Sam and I to fight, and Cuddy would be trying too hard to be professional."

"Sam would be all sickeningly sweet and overly-domestic. But you know how vicious girls can be, Wilson. There might've been a cat-fight."

"Oh, damn. If only I'd had the foresight to think of that. I suppose we'll have to go without."

"Yeah, the eye-gouging would've totally been worth it," House stated sincerely, and Wilson chuckled. They both smiled at each other and Wilson felt warmth spread through him; warmth he hadn't felt for a long while.

Wilson thought of Sam watching the clock and glancing at her phone. He knew she wouldn't text until it was nearing nine, but he also knew that while he was gone she would probably be thinking of all the times he'd had to stay late at work when in actuality he'd been keeping someone else's bed warm. She wasn't paranoid like House was, or jealous, despite the fact she had every right to be seeing as he'd been unfaithful. Worse, even knowing how it would make her pace and worry, he still didn't want to go through the inconvenience of having to listen to her fail to hide the fact she was disappointed.

"Perhaps we'll have to have a double-date, then."

"I'll bring the Jell-O," House promised, motioning over the waitress.

"Jell-O?"

"For the wrestling. Mud is so last decade," he explained as their waitress practically glided to the edge of their table, eyes bright with what Wilson assumed was practiced sincerity. She looked at House expectantly. "I changed my mind. I'll think I'll go with the usual," he told her, but his eyes were on Wilson instead.

* * *

Other than the minor hiccup during the beginning of their meal, sliding into familiar banter with House was easy. Once that hurdle had been handled, everything seemed to spill forth and they ended up having several refills and slowly picking away at their dinner (or rather, Wilson slowly picking away at his dinner while House casually ate from both plates.) House told him about a clinic patient with a roll of quarters in an uncomfortable place, and Wilson told him about a twelve-year-old terminal female patient of his that had a crush on him and shamelessly flirted with him despite her parents' embarrassment. House made a joke about Chase, thus proving that House never let good material slide even years later, and that he could still make Wilson choke on his iced tea and laugh to the point of near tears.

They'd ordered dessert and Wilson momentarily forgot about his love-handles and cholesterol long enough to order something that would've made Sam cluck her tongue. House ordered something that would've made Sam fall over and die had Wilson ordered it, and they both ate and finally discussed life with their girlfriends, even if it was brief and not incredibly informative. Wilson told House about how he and Sam alternated cooking and House explained that Cuddy was great in bed.

Talking about their love lives was superficial and brief and they quickly moved onto different topics. Wilson didn't mind it; he'd rather avoid talking about Sam around House, anyway.

It was eight-thirty by the time they finally decided to leave; Wilson paid the check, avoided flirting with the waitress but House still made a comment anyway, and they both moved to turn up the stereo when a Rolling Stones song began to play so that their hands knocked.

Wilson rolled to a stop in front of Cuddy's house and he stared up the walkway at the porch light and through the windows and the golden glow of her home. He'd been in there a few times; enough to know the layout. The fact that he'd stopped the car so that the passenger window faced the yard meant that he was also looking at House, who turned his head to reciprocate the glance. Wilson refocused his eyes so that they weren't gazing past him.

The car idled; he wasn't parked. The thrum of the engine and the soft, barely-audible music washed over him and filled him with an odd mixture of nostalgia, longing, and comfort. House didn't smile at him or do anything comforting or reassuring, but it somehow felt like he had.

"Well," House started, dragging the L sound out a bit longer than necessary.

Wilson nodded at him.

House opened his mouth as if to say something else, then he closed it and his Adam's apple bobbed. "I'm stealing your lunch tomorrow. I need some fattening up. Tofu sucks."

Wilson barely suppressed a grin. He knew House was asking to eat lunch with him tomorrow. "This might be a completely ridiculous suggestion, but perhaps _telling_ Cuddy what you like to eat would be wise?"

"You're right." House smirked. "That is a completely ridiculous suggestion."

Wilson shook his head, smiled thinly, and the silence dragged on for a second longer before he realized they were looking at each other, smiling thinly.

"I should probably get home before Sam worries about me," he blurted when that one second evolved into three and the air surrounding them started to feel less like dropping a friend off and more like something he'd rather not name.

"That tight leash starting to chafe yet?" House murmured as he pushed open the car door and slipped out. Before Wilson could comment, he slammed the door shut.

Wilson sighed and drove away.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

House really didn't know why it irked him so much that Wilson had said what he had. Really, they'd spent most of the day together and it only made sense that Sam would worry. Wilson, like so many times before, probably hadn't informed her he'd changed the double-dating plans to a boys' night out. Seeing as Wilson had cheated on her the first time they gave their doomed love a go it wouldn't be all the surprising if she'd spent the last few hours watching _Fatal Attraction_ and calling up the hospital to ask if he'd had a late surgery or if a patient coded or if he, for some reason, had to work late. Not only that, but they had been in front of Cuddy's-_their_ house and he hadn't put the car in park, so it wasn't like he should have expected a conversation.

It was probably a conditioned response to Wilson going home to some insipid woman. It was a learned behaviour so ingrained into him that it reared up even when he had someone to go to as well.

He heard Wilson pull away from the curb when he made it to his porch and pretended like he didn't know Wilson was driving as slowly as possible, eyes trained on the rear view mirror to make sure House got inside safely. Wilson used to wait until House was completely inside before driving away but then House mocked him for it. After that Wilson tried to act like he wasn't doing the same thing and House allowed Wilson to think he was getting away with it.

He shut the door behind him and breathed in the scent of freshly cooked vegetables and he assumed salad along with it because he could smell that disgusting vinaigrette dressing Cuddy used. Cuddy stood at the end of the foyer (which was actually just a small hallway) with her arms folded and lips pursed. Rachel squealed but he didn't know if it was from glee or distress and his mind whirred the way it did moments before an epiphany.

"You missed the dinner," she snapped.

The whirring clicked to a stop and, despite the fact he knew he was going to get hell for it, a part of him felt relieved he wouldn't have to have a lengthy conversation with a donor while he tried to eat.

"I forgot," he explained, which wasn't a lie. Of course he'd forgotten. He didn't remember things he didn't care about. He limped his way out of the foyer where he brushed past her and went towards the sitting room.

"House, do you know what strings I had to pull in order to get him here? I know you don't really care about the hospital, but I do! In fact, that's _my job!"_

He rolled his eyes as he plopped onto the couch. "It's a little creepy inviting some stranger into the house and sitting at the table where I banged you two nights ago, don't you think?" he commented as he picked up the remote and pulled up the guide, trying to find something to watch that didn't involve bright colours and annoyingly loud puppets of some kind.

Cuddy yanked the remote out of his hand and pulled it out of his reach when he instinctively grabbed for it. "Since someone had to open his mouth about our relationship, potential donors want to make sure that we have a _happy home life_ before donating money! If you had gone along with what I wanted then we wouldn't _have_ to invite him to dinner," she explained in a clipped, raised tone.

"I don't want to be your dirty little secret," he growled, narrowing his eyes up at her.

"And it's nobody's business what our personal life is like," she snapped.

"Oh, come off it, Cuddy!" he yelled, and realized a moment later he probably should have used her first name but instead of correcting himself he stood off the couch, ignoring the screeching in his leg, and pulled the cane away from the arm he'd rested it against. "You just didn't want anybody knowing you jump my bones every night! Well, I don't find _shame_ very appealing!" he shouted over his shoulder as he limped away from her. He didn't know where he was going, but arguing usually filled him with some restless energy and he had to walk it out.

"It's not shame; it's _professional-"_

"And it's professional to invite donors and show off how damn cutesy we are?" he asked, shoving the bedroom door open with such force it banged against the wall.

"That wasn't my intention! I _intended _to get money into your department. This was _for you_ and you still missed the dinner! This is your job!"

He spun around and glared, realizing he was towering over her. She stood just as rigidly and her eyes zeroed in on his angrily. "No, it isn't! I don't give a damn about tax breaks and fake altruism. That's _your_ job!"

"And it was your department he was considering donating to and what, you decide to skip off to a titty bar with Wilson instead?"

He narrowed his eyes when her words somehow missed his ears and smacked him right in the chest. "Is that what this is about? That I was with Wilson instead of you?" he demanded, clenching his teeth. "Because we haven't so much as _talked_ since you and I got together; excuse me if I don't want to be fastened to your ball and chain just yet!"

"Is that how you feel about us? I'm holding you back? Because I've _never_ told you to stop talking with him! In fact, if you want to hang out with him, go ahead! But you should have called me, House; told me you were going out-I would've been able to _remind_ you of the dinner and ask you to reschedule but instead you just took off!" she shouted, throwing her hands up in the air.

It felt like a punch to the gut when she screamed the truth at him because he realized, in one instant, that she was absolutely right. She had never once insisted he choose her over Wilson. Had he called her then he she would have reminded him but calling her hadn't even crossed his mind. He hadn't ignored her; he just hadn't thought about her. She wasn't angry because he was with Wilson; she was angry because he had skipped out on a dinner after she had reminded him several times and he and Wilson becoming so distant couldn't be blamed on her.

"I know how much Wilson means to you!" she continued as if no time had passed and he realized a second later that it really hadn't. "But you have to realize that I have things that are important too! And as much as you ignore it, people _talk,_ House! They talk about us; about how _fit_ I am to be Dean of Medicine and I have to try _twice_ as hard to be taken half as seriously!"

He shook thoughts of Wilson out of his mind and glared at her. "Do you really think I give a damn about what people think? For that matter, why do you?"

"Because I checked the finances for your department! I have absolutely no reason to keep you on staff; keep your department running! And I do and now that we're together, do you realize how that makes us look? I could get fired! Nepotism is highly frowned upon; we could lose our jobs if they think I'm some-some-" In her anger she didn't seem to have the ability to think of the right word, but after a growl, she yelled; "Some slut who slept her way to the top! Who has illicit affairs and puts her hospital at risk because-because of her boyfriend! Her boyfriend who doesn't even like her cooking!"

"I didn't skip out on the dinner because of your cooking-for God's sake, woman, I just _forgot!"_

"You threw your breakfast in the garbage, House. I'm not blind," she snapped, pursing her lips and hands going to her hips, looking very much like a Jewish mother which, House realized, she was. "I'm sorry you and Wilson haven't been able to hang out as much as you'd like, but that isn't my fault, and you have no right to take it out on me."

"I wasn't taking it out on you; I told you, I just-"

"Forgot," she interrupted with a sigh and an eye-roll. "That isn't an excuse."

He nodded but refused to meet her eyes. The silence the followed stretched and felt awkward; pressed in on them like a heavy, scratchy blanket on a too-hot summer night. He thought of her staring out the window until the Volvo pulled up, having wondered where he was all night. Or did she have to? Had she known? Or was she like Sam, wrapped up in thoughts of him falling into bed with someone else?

"If you didn't like my food, you could've said something," she murmured. He refused to say anything because either he would have to tell the truth and say that he didn't like half the crap she cooked because like it or not he just wasn't a vegan, or he could lie and make her feel better by being comforting. House didn't do comforting, so he just blinked at her. "Maybe we should write a list."

"A list?"

"Once a week we could . . . write a list of what we want for dinner that week."

"Sure, because you'll just love mutilated cow and lamb chops."

"Just because I don't eat it doesn't mean I won't cook it. Or maybe you can do the cooking."

"What, like we alternate days?" he scoffed before he could help himself, thinking of Wilson and Sam in their faux-Hallmark Card lifestyle and how they alternated days like it was some sort of job for them-like their relationship could be built on rosters.

He saw her eyebrows shoot up. "Well, you took those cooking classes with Wilson."

It made sense, he guessed. He had enjoyed cooking for awhile there, but really only as a distraction. But he had been great at cooking and if they alternated, then he would definitely be able to cook something he enjoyed. He could spoon some soup into a bowl and set it beside her salad and he could throw down some spaghetti and meatballs on his own plate, butchering mutilated cow with a knife and fork, and the next day she could plop some delicately cooked chicken she wouldn't eat on his plate and have some fancy girly-food with a garnish or whatever.

Then they could get matching aprons with His and Hers written in cursive on them, hold barbecues, and laugh silently as music swelled over their domestic montage.

"Just think about it," she asked.

Despite the fact it made him a little sick although he had no idea why since he'd had no problems whatsoever cooking the few times he'd lived with Wilson, he nodded. She smiled warmly at him and left the room, leaving him to wonder if she'd been smiling in victory.

* * *

Wilson sighed as he pushed open the door to the loft, awaiting the cold glare and pursed lips of Sam. He had no illusions about whether he did something wrong; he knew he did. He knew he should have called and told her he'd changed his mind about the double-date and just wanted to spend a night out with House alone and he knew she would have allowed him. He just hadn't wanted her disappointed words and guilt-trip hanging over his head and ruining the only time he'd had with House in the past two months shadowed by her long-suffering sighs and carefully placed words driven right into his heart, delivering the maximum amount of guilt without having to make her look like the bad guy.

"I was just about to call you," she informed the moment he hung up his coat.

"Sorry, I was with House," he explained.

"You could've called me, James," she snapped.

He turned around and nodded. "I know. I just . . . forgot," he lied.

"If you just wanted a boys' night out you could have told me."

He sighed. He hadn't expected her to believe him. "He doesn't really like double dates, Sam. I just . . . I haven't heard from him in awhile. We went out for a drink and got carried away. I lost track of time."

She pursed her lips and he walked past her and towards the bedroom, loosening his tie as he did so. "Do you really think I would've been angry with you for changing plans?"

"I didn't want to upset you," he muttered.

"So instead you have me pacing around here all night wondering where you are? I'm sorry you and House haven't been able to spend as much time together, but that's what happens when you're in a relationship. And he's in a relationship too. That isn't my fault."

"I know," he agreed dully.

"You tell me that he's the reason your last two marriages failed and then you spend all night with him without informing me? Just like how it started with Bonnie and Julie?"

"I never said he was the reason, Sam. I just said he didn't help," he corrected with a glare over his shoulder at her while his tie slipped into his hands.

She paused for a moment, then spoke between her teeth, as if trying her hardest not to yell. "I want to trust you, James. Trust has to be built on both sides; I realize that. And I understand that you'd think I wouldn't want you spending so much time with him, but if you don't tell me something as simple as wanting to change plans and lie to me about being with House, how am I supposed to trust you won't lie about more important things?"

"Like cheating on you?" he suggested dryly, wanting to get it out in the open so that it wouldn't have to be hinted at and danced around, as he turned to face her, tie clasped in one hand.

She dropped her arms from being folded across her chest. They stared at each other, the air cold and tense, and she strode forward, pulling the tie out of his hand gently as if he would break. "Well, you did have an affair. I can't just completely ignore that part of our history."

He felt a flush creep up his neck and he turned away, unbuttoning his cuffs. "I made a mistake. But this isn't about that. This is about House. As much as I care about you, I . . ." _Care about him, too._ "He's my best friend. Our friendship is suffering and I'm not going to let that happen. I know I should have called you, but I didn't want-" _Didn't want you to whine and make me feel horrible for wanting to have someone other than you in my life. _"I didn't want to complicate things," he settled. "Besides, I thought it would be simpler for everyone involved. You know how House gets when I . . . share my attention."

"Maybe it's not him who needs to learn to share. Ever since he's been with Cuddy, you've been . . ."

She didn't finish and he wasn't sure if he was glad of it or annoyed. They constantly walked on eggshells around each other, afraid that one wrong word would break them. Sure, she insisted that their argument when he called her a selfish bitch had helped them, but she had walked out of his life, albeit momentarily. How was he supposed to be certain that she wouldn't do the same again? He was too afraid of hurting her and he knew she had ammunition to shoot back at him were he ever to go too far. Ammunition he'd rather avoid.

"She's good for him. She'll shape him up; make him less . . . "

"Less what? Less himself?" he grumbled.

"Is that what it's about? Why you don't like her?"

"I never said I didn't like her," he rushed to explain as he began to work on unbuttoning his shirt. "I just don't think that it's a good omen that in order for a relationship to work that one or both people need to have a personality transplant, is all."

Sam sighed and clucked her tongue. "People change when they're in relationships, James."

He sighed. "They don't change. They . . . adapt. Evolve. There is a difference between that and needing to have base personality traits changed in order to find some semblance of happiness in a relationship."

"Well you can't expect anybody to want to be with House if he's so . . . abrasive all the time. If you ask me a little change wouldn't hurt."

"He doesn't need to change!" he shouted suddenly and she seemed to be just as surprised as he was at the outburst.

She blinked at him, her mouth dropped open slightly, and he swallowed the annoyance that had seemed to bloom in his throat. He almost apologized but he couldn't bring himself to say it so instead he looked away from her and shed his shirt, folding it over his arm while he walked over to the hamper in their master bathroom.

He cleared his throat. "I . . . I'm tired. I think I'm going to turn in early," he explained, staring down at the hamper, half-full of their clothes, and knowing he didn't need to pick up any towels from the floor and wouldn't have to check in the morning to make sure Sam had cleaned up after her nightly shower.

She walked into the bathroom, lips pulled tight as if to prevent herself from replying, and he began to strip as he went towards their bed.

When he covered himself with the duvet and she started the shower, he found himself wishing she'd forget her towel on the floor as he snuggled into his pillow.

* * *

The trilling screamed at him loud enough to jerk him awake and it took him a few moments to realize the phone was ringing. He blindly reached for the noise until he grabbed an almost unfamiliar phone on the wrong side of the bed, on the headstand next to Cuddy's alarm clock, and he answered it with his eyes closed. "What?" he grumbled, uncaring if his tone offended the person on the other end-probably Cuddy demanding he come in early to talk to some haughty donor or one of his team to inform him of a case.

"Would Lisa Cuddy be available? I'm calling to reschedule a meeting."

He groaned rubbed a hand over his face. One day stubble. He wouldn't need to shave until tomorrow. "She's at work. Call her cell phone," he ordered.

"This is her cell phone," the man replied coldly.

He pulled the cell phone away and opened his eyes long enough to realize that he was, indeed, holding her phone. "Oops, my bad. We must've switched pants. Explains why I'm getting ready in a mini-skirt. Ah well. Gender's relative nowadays anyway," he mumbled into the phone.

"Is there any way I can get a hold of her?" he asked in a tone of voice that made House want to reach in through the receiver and throttle him.

"Three glasses of wine and some Barry Manilow, but I'd suggest keeping your hands to yourself. I hear her boyfriend's a real dick and carries a big stick."

There was an irritated sigh that somehow reminded him of a pissed off horse, and a click.

House plopped his head back on the pillow and let out a comfortable sigh, uncaring that he'd probably pissed off some democrat with a riding crop. Or was that a republican with a weed whacker? He lost track of what sort of losers scheduled meetings and talked about donations. All he cared about was sliding back into his dream; something about sizzling bacon and Wilson cooking macadamia nut pancakes, wearing a Hers apron and singing I Believe In Miracles.

". . . where is from, a sixty theme, you sixty theme you," Rachel gurgled to the passable tune of the song Wilson had been singing. He opened his eyes and saw her sitting next to him, inspecting her nails. "Autumn leaves in circles, I can go wrong, you sixty theme."

He glanced over at the clock and he groaned. "Dammit," he moaned.

It was seven-thirty-eight. He needed to leave in twenty minutes.

He sat up and checked the alarm to see that someone had set it for six-thirty, and someone had turned it off. Now that he thought about it, he had a perfect memory of grabbing Rachel from her crib, ignoring her petulant whine and scrunched up face, while Cuddy cooked in the kitchen and he plopped back on the bed. He remembered the alarm shrieking and how he rolled over, clicking it off.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Guess we'll be skipping bath time today, kiddo," he said, looking at Rachel, who just looked at him like a cow would stare at an oncoming train. "I won't tell Mom if you won't."

"Is to say Wilson coming?" she asked.

"Not today," he said, rubbing his thigh absently. It ached, but no more than any other day. "Leg's fine."

He was wearing boxers to bed, only because Rachel had spilled her mashed peas on his pyjama pants last night when she'd woken up at one screaming for a snack. House hadn't minded feeding her since he'd been wide awake at the point, wishing for a piano to play but Cuddy wouldn't let him move it in. Something about not enough space and not wanting him keeping her up at all hours of the night. Or Rachel banging things against it, or House getting angry when Rachel spilled something on it or whatever. He hadn't actually managed to slip into bed until four in the morning because he'd been too caught up in Wilson and alternating cooking and the fact he missed dinner. Since he was wearing the boxers, though, when he rubbed at his leg it lifted his boxers slightly to show his scar.

Rachel hummed then reached forward, placing her hand on his, the palm so small in comparison, and she stared at his scar. "I do this?" she asked.

He pushed her hand away. "No, it wasn't you," he answered, slipping out of bed. She'd rammed into him yesterday and perhaps she'd thought that had caused it, although she had seen it before.

"How?" She blinked innocently at him and pointed at his leg.

He sighed and rubbed one eye. "I was sick," he told her.

"Look is sick too?" her voice wobbled in a way that couldn't be faked.

He stared at her, sitting on the bed, staring at him with a wide, open face and her bottom lip trembling slightly. "No," he revealed, then turned around so he wouldn't have to see her cry.

He couldn't block out the sound, though.

* * *

House paced the length of the living room, the sounds of some early-morning tripe for toddlers filling the background, and his stomach rumbled. Surprisingly, the scent of bacon and pancakes hadn't been his dream, but reality. He'd opened the fridge to find his breakfast carefully positioned on a plate-a slice of grapefruit, which had been really optimistic on Cuddy's behalf-four slices of bacon and two pancakes covered in syrup.

He gave Rachel the grapefruit, after removing the skin first, and ate the bacon. As soon as he'd looked at the pancakes he'd recognized them as macadamia nut, which Wilson had always made him whenever they'd had an argument or after House had had a bad day. Sometimes for no reason at all. For some reason he hadn't wanted to eat them-it felt as though eating someone else's macadamia nut pancakes would be like betraying Wilson-so he threw them away without even bothering to taste and instead he'd used the quart of milk to have some cereal (some tasteless adult-oriented cereal that he'd ended up only eating one-fourth of before dumping that down the sink) and settled for a cup of coffee now that he had that quart of milk to use, rather than Cuddy's soy milk. He ignored the creamer, which was also soy milk based, and put in his usual amount of sugar. His stomach rumbled with too much caffeine on too little food, and his fingers kept twitching with the intake of uppers.

His mind whirred with thoughts of cooking over a hot stove every other night, and he scowled when he realized he didn't know what Cuddy would like to eat. He would've suggested Thai, but he doubted Cuddy would enjoy sweet and sour pork. Even though Wilson was Jewish, he never denied himself some dead pig. Then again, he wasn't vegan, although he doubted his mother knew he wasn't kosher, either.

He'd have to hit up Chase for some money for the vending machine. He doubted Taub chanced walking near House with change in his pockets anymore, and Chase was still struck with hero worship enough to fork over a few dollars. Or at least, that was what House hoped. With a bag of chips, a Twix, and maybe even a small package of donuts, his stomach might stop growling.

He pulled out his cell phone and stared at it, as if he were expecting a call although he wasn't, and then he stuffed it back in his pocket. The nanny usually showed up around seven-fifty, but it was seven-fifty-eight. Normally she showed up ten minutes early, but she wasn't late yet so he didn't have cause to worry.

He heard the door open and he turned, expecting the nanny, and instead saw Cuddy, rushing inside and brushing off her tasteful-yet-not-boring skirt. "I got an interesting call to my office today," she greeted, pursing her lips angrily at him. "House, could you at least _try_ to be civil occasionally?"

"Sorry, but civility isn't one of the services I offer until eleven, and only on my good days," he quipped, then started heading towards the door. "Don't wanna be late-my boss gets real cranky when I forget to come in on time."

She didn't appear any more or less annoyed than she had been when she walked in, so he assumed she wasn't pissed off at any of the comments he'd made so much as the fact she'd left her phone. In fact she even smiled thinly and rolled her eyes in a way that meant she was grudgingly amused. Or at least, that was what it had meant on Wilson, but he had yet to catalogue all of her sighs and expressions. "She hasn't shown up yet?"

House almost told her that she was probably annoyed with the fact he'd had a little chat with her yesterday about using language south of the border and would probably punish him by not coming in to work until the very last minute, but he decided that was probably best left unmentioned. He shrugged nonchalantly instead.

"I'll stay until she shows," she offered, then kissed him quickly goodbye.

He had driven down two blocks before he saw the nanny's car driving towards the house. They'd stopped at the same intersection and locked eyes through their windshields, and she resolutely looked away and lifted her chin snootily.

He just snorted and turned on the blinker.

* * *

Thirteen had swooped in and saved House's tummy just moments before expiration, and he'd thanked her profusely by demanding she give him ten bucks for the vending machine. Luckily for him, she was either in a good mood or grateful enough that he'd given her time off and had reworked her schedule as she'd asked and so she hadn't walked away and instead gave him the money.

So, a bag of chips, a Twinkie, and some jerky later, he felt stuffed enough to sit comfortably at his desk and look up ridiculous granny porn that would disturb most, arouse few, and amuse him.

He didn't even bother to look up when he heard his door open. "So, what are you doing?" Wilson asked, striding across his office and sitting in the chair across his desk, as he had done a million times before and House almost smiled at the fact they seemed to perhaps be slipping into their old routine. It wasn't even ten and Wilson was squeezing in some time for his best buddy.

"Watching grannies getting it on," he answered, taking glee in the disgusted expression Wilson gave him. "What? Octogenarians need to have happy time too, y'know."

"You've succeeded in robbing me of any and all libido I could have possibly had in the near future, but yes, I suppose they do." His suppressed smile said all House needed to hear and he exited out of the window. "Anything else?"

"Besides undressing you with my eyes? Not a thing. So how'd Sam take you forgetting to inform her of your change in plans last night?"

He shrugged. "She wasn't happy, but she understood."

"Somehow I find that an understatement."

"What? We don't really argue. Some of us don't thrive off of conflict." He pointedly stared at House. "Anyway, any problems she had with it were apparently forgotten this morning."

"Matinee performance?"

Wilson's aw-shucks shrug and innocent smile told all. "She practically threw herself at me. Of course, the fact I served her breakfast in bed might have accounted for that."

House figured that Wilson serving Sam breakfast in bed wasn't so much as a romantic gesture as it was him begging for forgiveness for forgetting her abhorred double-dating plans, which made him grin a little in half-victory. It wouldn't be too long then before he would be spending more and more time with House, forgetting Sam more, and then Sam leaving him by cheating with her tennis instructor (because by that time, he assumed she would have taken up tennis to make up for lost sex time) and Wilson would be . . . Well, not showing up on his porch with a suitcase since it was his loft and House lived with Cuddy now, but he'd be single once more.

"Speaking of breakfast, Cuddy made me macadamia nut pancakes this morning," he informed, finding that more interesting than Wilson's soon-to-be-declining relationship.

"Oh?" Wilson's expression was completely and totally uninterested; a perfect blend of nonchalance and trying-to-act-interested, with a side of innocence.

House scoffed. "So did you go to her or did she go crying to you, begging for help on how to tame the wild best, otherwise known as her boyfriend?"

Wilson sighed, apparently not very pleased with the fact House, while in a relationship, was still not a moron and fully capable of putting two and two together. Cuddy was a vegan and had cooked for herself for so long, and hadn't changed her ways until last night. Suddenly she was buying milk, eggs, and making his absolute favourite breakfast meal ever and Wilson had nothing to do with it, despite the fact he was the only person who had ever made them for House before? Right.

"She asked me," he relented. "You know, you could tell her what you like to eat rather than making her guess."

"Well, she wants to start writing a list. And alternate cooking meals. Or was it days? I don't know. Didn't really ask for details," he murmured, mind still stuck on family barbecues and His and Hers aprons to match their fluffy towels that he would probably still leave on the floor much to her dismay (although she had yet to complain, he could sense the subject nearing).

"You're not actually a bad chef," Wilson complimented, reaching forward to take a rubber band, stretching it between his fingers absent-mindedly.

He scowled. "In case you've magically forgotten my eating habits for the past, oh, fifty years, I'm not actually a vegan."

"Every third week, my cooking class focuses on vegan dishes. If you're interested, you could start coming again. It's only once a week and I could take you," he offered and the way he spoke and refused to meet House's eyes meant that he hadn't mentioned it for Cuddy's sake.

House thought about standing beside Wilson, making ball jokes and maybe marking his cheek with sauce, ensuring that they would both be a mess by the time they made it home. It wasn't that he enjoyed cooking or anything, but it would be a guaranteed day with Wilson at least once a week.

Before he could really answer, although he was considering, Cuddy burst into his office, her jaw set with determination and a folder in her hand. Wilson glanced at her, stretching the band as far as it would go as if he were going to shoot it at House, as she stormed as elegantly as one could in heels to his desk and threw the folder down with more force than necessary, the slap of it hitting his desk and swish of it sliding amplified for no other reason than the fact it was silent in the room otherwise.

"Thomas Mueller," she stated.

The band snapped, just like the chance of House's day actually going smoothly and without work, flinging across the room and smacking the glass wall separating his office with the differential diagnosis room.

"I'll take random-ass names for two-hundred, Alex," he stated.

"Your patient," she corrected sharply, and judging by the purse of her lips and fact her hands were stuck to her hips, but not in an endearing Wilson-esque way, she was not pleased.

"Something I don't have," he answered, and off her glare, he winced. "Oh, right. Sorry. Form of a question. _What_ is something I don't-"

"Vertigo, dizziness, and-"

"Hopefully someone who can differentiate between the two."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, sighed, and fixed him with an icy glare. "Vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue. This is the sixth time since January that he's asked for you, and this time, you're taking it."

"Well if he's lived long enough to apply six times, then I'm not really all that interested."

"He refuses to see any other doctors!"

"And he's probably got low blood pressure and stands up too fast. Or maybe he's malnourished and overworked. Not my problem."

"Or he could have a debilitating neurological disorder and is slowly dying. You're taking the case, and that's final."

He sighed and scowled at the folder for a few moments before returning to looking at her. "You're punishing me because I missed that dinner, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not punishing you! This is your job, like it or not, and I'm your _boss._ Take the case, or cover Wilson's clinic hours for the rest of the week."

Ouch. She knew how to play hardball. In the old days, he'd barter and whine and insult his way out of it-then again, in the old days, she wouldn't have swooped in here with a pissy expression all because he'd accidentally missed a dinner with a donor when she knew he hated talking to donors in the first place. Or possibly because he'd made a few unkind remarks to someone over the phone. Now if he didn't do his job she could withhold sex and he'd go home to an unhappy girlfriend who pursed her lips and gave him the cold shoulder until he relented and took the case so they could have hot make up sex.

He clenched his teeth and let out a sigh, thinking over some random patient whose symptoms were vague, uninteresting, and could mean a multitude of illnesses that were probably better suited for a doctor who actually liked to waste his time. "I'll talk to him and give him an exam-that's it," he compromised, which he thought was fair.

"House. Do your job," she snapped, then turned on her heel and stalked off.

When the door shut behind her he looked over at Wilson, glad that he'd gotten used to being ignored ages ago and had learned that lounging in House's office or vice versa entailed that at some point one of House's team or Cuddy was going to interrupt, go on for a few minutes about a patient, ignore Wilson, and leave. Wilson stared blankly at him in return.

House opened the folder and sighed. "Dammit," he muttered, having the feeling he'd been using that word a lot lately.

"I'm . . ." Wilson began, mouth open for a second longer before it closed. He cleared his throat and rubbed the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry I distracted you from that dinner."

"Not your fault," he muttered, eyes ticking over the information, hoping to find something worth garnering his attention.

"No, I-I should have-she mentioned it; I just didn't realize it was it was last night."

"I said it was fine, Wilson," he growled, glaring at him briefly before returning to the patient's file.

"Why didn't you take his case before?" Wilson asked after a few moments of quiet, hand moving from his nose and relocating to his lap.

"Because I only take every one in twenty cases actually presented to me, and this is about as interesting as Cuddy's cereal." He glanced over it quickly before shutting it with a slap. "I'll give him an exam and that's it. If I don't find anything interesting, he can go to some other doctor. It's probably just an inner ear problem."

"Could be cancer," Wilson suggested quietly, eyes lowered and settled on the folder.

"Said the oncologist."

Wilson stared at the folder for a moment longer, the silence stretching and starting to get awkward in the way it never would have before House started dating Cuddy. "Well, I should get a head start on those hours. Or perhaps I should lounge about and avoid them like you, since someone else'll be taking care of them for the rest of the week?"

"Do that and I'll punch you in the face."

Wilson chuckled airily once, then pushed out of the chair and headed to the door.

House waited until he'd opened it before he cleared his throat. Wilson turned to look over his shoulder and in House's direction, raising an eyebrow. "I'll take the cooking classes," he said.

Wilson nodded. "Okay."

"I'm not taking them for her," he insisted.

Wilson, for some reason, lowered his gaze to the floor before nodding a few times. "I know," he stated, then slipped out without meeting House's eyes once.

* * *

Cuddy massaged her temples, trying to stave off the headache she could feel building, and sighed. As she glanced over the finances for each department, she bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from screaming. House going over budget was not anything new, considering all the tests he ran and lengths he went to for each patient, and the fact his department was the least staffed and had the lowest budget in the first place. He hadn't gone over his budget more so than any other month; however, now that they were officially, and publicly, together, then people in positions above her might pay more attention to how she handled his department; how her boyfriend handled his work.

The looks she received from the nurses and other doctors in the hospital she could handle; the low whispers when she and House parted ways in the hall during the day after a short conversation were bothersome, but nothing she couldn't ignore. Rumours had always filled the hospital; rumours of her and House, him and Wilson, her and Wilson, Wilson and a horde of nurses . . . Rumours were different than fact, however, and now that they were together, a few snide remarks spat out in anger months before were cycling the nurses' lips again. It was no secret that House was unpopular and she'd hired him when nobody else would have which had always had people speculating, but now people overlooked the fact he was a great doctor entirely and thought his job was based purely on sexual attraction. Either House didn't understand or care (probably the latter) about the importance of all of this, but she did, and she needed donations if she didn't want everyone to continue assuming things that could potentially hurt her career.

She'd managed to smooth over the fact House had missed the dinner with a lie; the donor had understood that doctors had patients and respected his choice in choosing the patient over him. He'd said that they would stay in contact and he'd talk to House later, hoping to get a feel for the man in charge of the department to which he was debating donating. She knew House didn't like talking to donors; she also knew that life was filled with having to handle situations people would rather not have to deal with and that in order to receive the money, he had to do something he didn't like. It was a necessity; considering House always went to the oncology benefits, she had assumed one simple dinner wouldn't have been asking too much.

Still, that had been dealt with last night. Getting a phone call from someone she'd had a meeting with tomorrow (until he rescheduled) about not appreciating the way he'd been treated over the phone by some asshole in charge of her cell phone had put her in a less-than-pleasant mood, which had spiralled into a worse mood when Rachel's nanny had showed up three minutes late and had given her the cold shoulder, acting as if Cuddy had somehow wronged her, and had exploded into anger when she saw House's completely untouched pancakes in the garbage.

The pancakes had been a sure thing-Wilson had insisted he loved them and she'd made them, using ingredients she normally ignored entirely, all for him to throw it away without a single bite.

So perhaps it had been her anger that fuelled her to insist he take the Mueller file. He'd applied a few times before and she hadn't thought he'd be interested and she'd been right every time, but it was just a culmination of several things piling up all at once and then seeing that familiar name that made her snap. House was the only doctor in her hospital that had a caseload of one a week, if that. He skipped out on most of his clinic hours, hardly did any of his work, and he wouldn't so much as look at a patient who stubbornly refused to see anyone else? If it was so damn uninteresting and easy, Thomas Mueller would be in and out within the day. Considering how much Cuddy let him get away with, she figured House owed her at least that much.

She heard a few quick knocks on her door and then Wilson peeked his head inside, wincing slightly when she looked up at him. "Is . . . now a bad time?"

As usual, her assistant had allowed Wilson to come right in without an appointment or warning her ahead of time; she'd learned a month after she'd been hired that if House, any member of his team, or Wilson wanted to see her then it would be best to just let them. Wilson and her really only had one thing in common so she didn't have to ask what was wrong.

"Now's fine," she sighed, then brushed her fingers over her brow, dropping her pen. "What did he do?" she asked when Wilson sat.

"Oh, no, he's done nothing; I just . . . I wanted to apologize for making him miss that dinner you'd planned. I had no idea that dinner you mentioned was last night and I didn't think to ask you if it was all right if we went out."

"You shouldn't have to ask. He should be able to remember on his own; I even reminded him yesterday morning and he still . . ." She glanced at Wilson to see his perfectly accepting expression and wide, comforting eyes. She sucked on her bottom lip slightly, then sighed. "I know you two haven't been . . . as close as you were before, and I understand if he wants to hold onto that-I know how important you are to him and how much he cares about you, but . . . "

"But he shouldn't have forgotten; I know. It's just . . . You know he hates talking to donors as it is. Why would he want to invite one into his home? The dinner could've easily been lunch, or a meeting here, or at a restaurant-it didn't need to interfere with your personal life. You know House doesn't like to intermingle home and work."

She sighed, figuring that was why hindsight was twenty/twenty. "I know. Honestly, Wilson, I'm really not upset over that anymore. I've just been having a horrible morning; first I left my cell phone at home and then Rachel's nanny . . . and House didn't even touch his pancakes . . ."

"But House loves macadamia nut pancakes," he argued, looking as if someone had told him two plus two equalled seven.

"He didn't touch them. He just threw them away."

"So . . . Thomas Mueller is punishment for the pancakes?" He raised his eyebrows knowingly and lowered his chin slightly.

Cuddy sighed. "It's his job, Wilson. This is the sixth time he's come here asking for House to look at him; most people stop at three. He needs to start taking his job seriously."

"Why? Because . . . he's dating you? You knew what he was like before you hired him and you knew who he was before getting involved with him romantically. He's . . . not going to change." She didn't mean to glare at him; she just felt herself doing it at his lecture. He raised both of his hands and nodded once. "Not my business to pry; understood. However . . ." He cleared his throat and lowered his hands, meeting her eyes. "If House doesn't take the case . . ."

"He's going to take it," she insisted.

"Of course," he agreed hastily and she almost believed his sincerity. "But if he doesn't take it now, he never will. If that happens . . . refer him to a doctor that'll actually take it."

"Someone like you?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow at him.

Wilson made a noise that was half a scoff and half a laugh. He looked away from her, smiling in a pained way and shaking his head. After a moment, he looked back at her, although it seemed more like he was looking through her, and sighed. "Just . . . someone that'll actually make sure he leaves the hospital with a diagnosis. If this is a test-him taking the case-and he fails, don't punish the patient."

Cuddy pursed her lips, feeling a bit like Wilson was unfairly attacking her. After a moment she realized he was just looking out for his best friend, as she would in his position, and nodded. Considering the lengths House went to in order to 'look out' for Wilson, she should be glad that all he was doing was giving her some advice and politely lecturing her-were it the other way around, she'd have to deal with sabotaged dates and insane jealousy.

He nodded once then stood out of the chair, then tapped her desk once. "Sorry about the pancakes. I thought for sure he'd . . ." He frowned and furrowed his eyebrows, looking lost and confused, then he shook his head as if knocking a few thoughts loose. He rubbed the back of his neck, then sighed. "I should let you get back to what you were doing," he said in parting, then left her to her paperwork.

She stared at her ever-growing inbox of files, and then at the paperwork that littered all over her desk. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

So perhaps he was wearing a tie (white with four-leaf clovers) and orange-and-white sneakers that didn't match his light-blue button-up shirt or his blue jeans, but he'd be damned before he threw on his lab-coat. If people looked at him more professionally now that he threw on a tie, then so be it. He would turn that smile upside down with a slight against their sister, mother, and grandmother too if needed. Luckily for him, he'd pissed off most of the people in the hospital enough that he could probably don a tux and save helpless kittens and they'd still hate him.

"Thomas Blahler," House said, staring at the nurse behind the counter and lifting the folder.

The nurse raised her eyebrows at him and scowled, then sighed. "Exam room three," she informed.

He rolled his eyes and started over to the exam room, opening the folder to look over the vague file. Birth date, name, symptoms, and insurance information-great insurance-but in the grand spectrum of things, that meant absolutely nothing that was diagnostically relevant, save for the fact that he seriously doubted the case would turn out to be interesting after all.

He pushed open the door, louder than most would have, and stared at the trio in front of him, meaning his family had joined. House absolutely hated it when the family joined in because patients were less willing to be open about embarrassing symptoms and also because families tended to be either overbearingly worried, or tried to out-school him on his craft. Not that he minded because he had every intention of not taking the case, but families tended to often amplify annoyances and moods and he was sure they wouldn't be too happy with the fact he was about five minutes away from turning around and walking out of the exam room with an eye-roll.

Thomas sat on the exam table, looking older than his age. His head was completely shaven, showing a long, jagged scar on the left side, but other than that there was nothing noticeable about his appearance that was diagnostically relevant. He held a large white purse in his lap, despite the fact his wife wasn't doing anything that would require both hands. Emasculation at its finest. Recognizing the health insurance, as well as the fact that he and his entire family had almost uncomfortably white, straight teeth, clued House in to his profession, as did the expensive slacks House recognized as the same type Wilson swooned over and the expensive silk, deep green shirt.

"Dentist?" he inquired.

"Orthodontist," his wife answered haughtily, tilting her chin upwards and pursing her lips together as if House had purposely attacked her honour. His wife had sleek blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and slight wrinkles around her light-blue eyes. She had sharp cheekbones but a smooth jaw, whereas her husband had a strong, square-ish one. She was thin with perky, but small, breasts, and slender hips. Despite the fact it was the middle of summer, she was wearing a maroon turtle-neck with black slacks

"God, who cares?" the son murmured. He glanced over at their son, a gangly teen with blonde shaggy hair, a sleeveless grey shirt, and tattoos on his knuckles. His right had the word ROCK emblazoned in Old English, and WELL on the left. The base knuckles were scabbed over and swollen.

"Are you Doctor House?" Thomas asked, cutting over something his wife was about to say.

"Surprised you don't recognize me, what with all the stalking," he shot back, throwing the file onto the counter and glaring Thomas down.

"Thomas wouldn't have needed to reapply had you taken his case the first time," his wife snapped.

"He's a doctor. I'm sure he was busy," the boy drawled, inspecting his nails casually.

"Yeah, busy as a bee here," he lied with a cheery laugh. "So since I'm here already wasting my time, why don't we hurry this up and do the check-up, shall we?"

"Listen, I'm not sure I appreciate-"

"Hey, Mom," the boy interrupted, luckily before House managed to speak. "I'm bored. Why don't we skip off, huh?" He stood out of the chair with a slight overdone swagger and curled his lip slightly, tilting his crooked nose (broken nose improperly fixed; slight swelling and cut across the bridge indicating the injury was recent) upwards in a haughty manner that was apparently genetic. His eyes were a softer grey like Thomas' but other than that he looked very much like his mother; thin lips and all.

The wife looked at Thomas, raising her plucked, light eyebrows and blinked rapidly, puckering her lips. Thomas nodded then gestured out the door with his chin.

She huffed, grabbed her purse form his lap, and stalked out of the door, their son following with a loping grace House attributed more to force than actual habit. It was a bit too heavy on the swagger and showy for it to be genuine.

When the door clicked shut, Thomas sighed. "Sorry about that. Sarah's a bit . . . aggressive."

"As interesting as your marital bliss is to me," he opened, patting down his clothes and looking around the exam room for materials, "I think we should get this check-up started. I've got things I'd rather be doing than diagnosis light-headedness and an acute obsession with gimped-out doctors." He patted down his clothes again, then sighed. "I must've left my stethoscope in my other pants."

"There's a lab-coat and stethoscope over there. Was here before we got in," Thomas pointed out and House turned to look where he'd gestured. There was a lab-coat hung up on a coat rack and a stethoscope draped across it, too.

House grabbed the stethoscope and put it around the back of his neck and peeled off the yellow Post-It note, staring at the spiky, all-capitals scrawl left by Wilson. 'Knew you wouldn't wear it, but was hopeful anyway.' He crumpled it up, tossed it towards the garbage, and grimaced as it bounced off the rim. He turned around and smirked. "You're lucky someone out there was looking out for you, otherwise we might've had to postpone this."

"Why didn't you take my case?" he inquired, narrowing his eyes. Despite his strong, square jaw and sharp, action-hero nose, his voice was surprisingly gentle. Then again, maybe his wife robbed him of his nuts about four exits back.

"Because I don't waste my time on uninteresting cases. You're not interesting unless A, you're spewing blood from at least one of your orifices." He limped towards him and grabbed his wrist from where it had been resting against his knee. "B, you start seizing or coding." He scoffed at the buttoned cuffs, glad he didn't button his, and easily slid the button free. "Or C, you've seen more than one doctor and none of them have managed to think of any plausible diagnoses. Since you've marked D, none of the above, I decided to take the big-breasted, sexy psychopath instead. Or whoever the hell was more interesting than you at the time."

Thomas scoffed and shook his head. "At least you're honest."

"Doesn't offend you?"

"I don't know you; why should I care?" he murmured in what've passed for a nihilistic tone had it not sounded so damn depressing.

Had House actually cared, he might have pried a little to find out why he was so maudlin, but he didn't give a crap. He found his pulse and pressed against it, counting the beats of his heart. Thomas remained silent as he counted and after a minute, he removed his fingers. He had a normal heart-rate; nothing worth mentioning.

"I don't know why you'd care; you're the one who keeps begging me to look you over." He hooked the end of his cane around the base of the wheelie chair and pulled it to him, plopping in it.

He sighed. "We're new to New Jersey. Moved here in December and you're a well-known doctor. I've got the money for the best so why would I settle for anything less?"

He readjusted the chair so it was more comfortable. "Because I apparently have yet to settle for you. Now open your blouse and say 'ah.'" He swung the stethoscope from off of his neck.

Thomas cleared his throat. "I have no issues breathing. Is that necessary?"

"You're right. None of this is necessary. I'll be on my way then," he chirped then moved to push out of the chair.

He let out a sigh and clenched his jaw. "Fine, fine," he muttered and fidgeted slightly, then unbuttoned his shirt quickly, eyes lowering to the floor.

It wasn't until the shirt popped open that he even began to understand why he'd be acting shy. On his right pectoral, black against his slightly-tanned skin, was a large, thick swastika.

House blinked, stared at the dark symbol marking his skin, and raised his eyebrows as he hummed once. "Let me go on a wild limb here and make the assumption you didn't mean that as the Sanskrit symbol for good luck."

"I'm a neo-Nazi."

House rolled his eyes. "Believe or not, I actually managed to come to that conclusion all by myself. Now breathe in."

Thomas breathed in and straightened his back slightly, holding it in for a few seconds until House nodded at him. When he let out the air it sounded more like a long huff. "Do you have a problem treating a neo-Nazi?"

"Doesn't matter because I won't be taking your case anyway." He moved the stethoscope. "Breathe in."

"If you're not going to take it then what purpose do you have in giving me an exam?" he asked with a slight smirk before holding his breath again.

House glared at him and disliked the knowing smile on his face. "Breathe out and having sex."

He let out a harsh breath and blinked rapidly. "Having . . . I'm sorry?"

"You asked me what my purpose was. Having sex is my motive. Turns out, dating your boss is all fine and dandy until she decides to withhold sex because we have a different opinion on what doing my job actually entails. Sorry to tell you this but unless something really interesting happens within the next two minutes I'm going to walk out of here, go home, and watch _Inglorious Basterds."_ He lowered the stethoscope and watched as Thomas set his jaw. "Breathe in."

"For your information, most neo-Nazis choose to live a more peaceful lifestyle. Petitions, voting, rallies-it's not about violence anymore. Adolf Hitler may have had the right ideas, but his methods were flawed. It's not about hate; it's about-"

"Puppies and frolicking through tulips; I don't care. I told you to breathe in," House snapped.

Thomas clenched his jaw, and squeezed his eyes closed. He rubbed his forehead and breathed in sharply. Off House's nod he let it out. "I understand the hostility, but trust me, there isn't any need for it."

"What hostility? I'm not treating you any differently than I treat all my other patients. I'm an ass to everyone." House pulled the stethoscope away.

"You like people thinking you're an ass."

"I like not wasting my time on talkative Nazis. When did the symptoms first present?"

"In January."

"The same month you first asked to be looked over by me. All right, so now I'll settle for the truth-nobody goes straight to a diagnostician over light-headedness." He pushed out of the chair and pulled the stethoscope out of his ears, draping it over his shoulders.

Thomas started buttoning up his shirt, the white overhead light gleaming off his bald head, a streak of light flashing across his scar. "I went to medical school; I know what symptoms to look out for."

"Funny thing about being a dentist? You're not _actually_ a doctor-you just have illusions of grandeur because some alcoholic buddy of Wyatt Earp had cool practically exuding from his every pale and jaundiced pore. So when did the symptoms start?"

He looked up at him. "I'll admit the fatigue started before then, but who doesn't get tired after a move? The vertigo and dizziness didn't start until January." He finished the last button, his swastika hidden from sight.

House scoffed. "If you know anything about me-and let's face, with seven months of stalking under your belt, I think it's safe to assume you do-then you know I don't just take random cases. It was enough to worry you to send it straight to me-that doesn't happen after a week or so of getting dizzy. When did the symptoms first present?"

"I have no reason to lie to you. I told you; I can afford the best, and so that's what I expect."

House narrowed his eyes and looked him over. "Where did you live before?"

"Arizona. Why?"

"Symptoms presented a month after your move. Your body's adjusting to the change in elevation and temperature. Learn to adapt and get over it." With that, he turned and limped towards the door, pleased with his ability to avoid work.

He grabbed the door knob, twisted, and- "Wait," Thomas begged.

He lowered his chin and squeezed his eyes shut. The dreaded doorknob symptom. Of course. "I was afraid you'd say that," he groaned, then turned back to face Thomas, who was now on his feet, looking pale and his right hand trembling.

He swallowed audibly, which was really saying something because House was across the room. He opened his mouth and heaved, hurling blood onto the linoleum. The sick sound of it slapping wetly against the floor was amplified in the otherwise silent room.

Thomas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a long and thick stream of blood still hanging from his bottom lip, his grey eyes finding House's and pale eyebrows raising.

House let out a long, agitated sigh. "You did that on purpose."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Unhappily, House pushed open the door to the differential room and threw the folder onto the table. It slid across it with more force than he'd intended and it slid past Chase and Thirteen slammed a hand down on it to prevent it from flying off the other side. He limped over to the white board and hooked his cane on the top.

He uncapped his black marker and hastily scribbled down the symptoms. The squeak of it sliding across the board made him grind his teeth for a moment, and he thought about Thomas Mueller, sitting on his bed with his family beside him, stroking his shining, bald head and reminiscing about some good ol' fashioned Jew bashing.

He capped the marker and turned around, staring at his team expectantly. "Vertigo, dizziness, fatigue, and vomiting blood."

". . . and which symptom is the swastika supposed to represent?" Taub asked, tone surprisingly nonchalant.

"Oh, yeah. He's also a neo-Nazi."

"We're treating a _Nazi?"_ Chase exclaimed.

"A _neo-_Nazi. Apparently there's a world of difference. They're a peaceful, loving group of hateful racists, who prefer to commit genocide by voting or some other nonsense they tell themselves so they feel better about all the times they slip up and accidentally shove millions of innocent people into stoves."

"Why are you accepting this case? There's absolutely nothing interesting about his symptoms, unless the fact he's a racist and will hate most of your team by principle is remarkable enough to take on a case you'd normally ignore," Foreman sneered haughtily, glaring at House as if it were somehow his fault that Thomas Mueller worshipped some Austrian with Charlie Chaplin envy.

"He. Spewed. Blood. On my list of interesting symptoms, that's pretty much near the top. Besides, I didn't even want to take the case-you have issues treating him take that up with Cuddy. She's the one who insisted."

Foreman stood up. "Spewing blood on its own is not interesting enough for you and neither is the fact Cuddy insists, even if you're dating. If he weren't a Nazi then you wouldn't have cared." He lifted his chin defiantly. "I'm not participating in this."

"Come on, Foreman, you'll treat a tyrannical dictator who admits to genocide but not some suburban dentist who admits that fact he has prejudices?"

Foreman shook his head in the haughty, snobby way only he could pull off. "You took in Dibala because of his symptoms. You're taking this case because he's a Nazi or because you want to get laid. That's not enough of a reason for me."

"Vertigo and dizziness could be neurological," House pointed out.

"And I have a conflict of interest," he informed icily, then strode out of the differential room, the door shutting behind him.

House furrowed his brows, Foreman's words niggling in his mind more than they should have. Thomas had vomited blood right in front of him; that was enough for him to take the case, even if he hadn't been a Nazi. Even if him and Cuddy hadn't been involved. He bit down on his lip for a second, reconsidering for a brief moment. He'd turned down more interesting cases with more fascinating symptoms before.

Thirteen opened the folder and glanced over it, then up at the white board. "Foreman does have a point. As a Nazi, he's going to hate us all on principle. Taub's Jewish, Foreman's black, and I'm bisexual."

"The fact that your door swings in a more controversial direction isn't visible-well, unless you start lunching on his wife's box. And what about Chase here? He's part of the team and I doubt Tommy Boy will hate him. He's practically a poster-child for white supremacy. Unless they've got something against Aussies."

Taub raised his eyebrows. "You're saying I look Jewish?"

"Have you seen your honker? It's pretty much a dead giveaway. Lemme guess-you're going to stalk off in righteous indignation too?"

Taub blinked. "And miss the chance I'd have at being able to poke and prod him?"

House couldn't help but smirk. "I like the way you think. But while you're thinking, let's take advantage of it and start diagnosing. What causes vertigo, dizziness, fatigue, and vomiting blood?"

"Vomiting blood is a new symptom," Chase said aloud, looking over the file Cuddy had given House before the incident in the exam room. "He's been dealing with the other symptoms longer."

"Either he coincidentally started puking blood for the first time during an examination or he's been lying," Thirteen suggested.

House narrowed his eyes. "He stopped me when I got to the door. Before he could tell me, he showed me. Obviously there was something he wanted to add." He thought about the fact Thomas applied directly to him in the same month the symptoms presented and how he hadn't believed him; he thought of him begging him to wait and how visibly nervous he'd been right before he'd vomited. "If he's omitted vomiting blood then he could be omitting other symptoms."

"Why would anyone purposely hide symptoms for months?" Thirteen asked.

"You'd know more about that than anyone else in the room," House said with a pointed stare. There was a brief, almost awkward silence where Thirteen gaped at him and Chase and Taub tried to pretend they weren't glancing between them as if awaiting a verbal tennis match. "Thirteen, get his family out of his room. Get them a cup of coffee; try to see if they've noticed any symptoms he hasn't been telling us. Chase, you get the history and Taub, since being there might present you a chance to poke and prod him with sharp implements, you go along and oh yeah, make sure Chase doesn't accidentally poison him."

It was Chase's turn to gape, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked downward, a failed attempt at appearing nonchalant. Nobody noticed, though, and Thirteen dutifully stood and left the room with a nod just as Taub stood. He stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled towards the door slowly, waiting for Chase.

"I'll be out in a second," Chase promised as he stood, keeping his eyes on House as Taub left the room.

House sighed and rolled his eyes. "I know. Life's so unfair. You murder one patient and it's like nobody ever trusts you again."

"Why'd you take the case?"

"Because I've got a fetish for men with tats. Skedaddle."

With a small sigh and tiny head shake, Chase walked out of the differential diagnosis room and left House standing in front of the white board, alone. When he turned around and took the cane from off of the white board, he told himself that taking the case hadn't been that strange, and his team was just being overly critical because Thomas was a Nazi.

* * *

"Do you think the case is interesting enough for House?" Chase asked, lounging against the wall far enough away where the patient and his family wouldn't know they were watching, but close enough where he could see Thirteen striking up a conversation with the wife. She was very attractive, Nazi or otherwise, but what Chase didn't understand (along with the Nazi thing) was why she'd be wearing a turtle-neck in this weather.

"I think that trying to understand why House does anything is a Herculean labour best not attempted by mortals," Taub replied calmly.

"So what you're saying is that you don't care that we're diagnosing a Nazi?" Chase questioned disbelievingly with a stare in his colleague's direction.

Taub turned a blank expression to him. "We're doctors. We treat people. Regardless of race, religion, or beliefs, it's what we do. It isn't for us to decide who lives and dies."

"Well, I'm sure he feels similarly," Chase remarked sarcastically.

"Harsh truth about living in a free country-you have allow people to have differing opinions. If I want to be able to freely deny Jesus Christ as the saviour, then I have to allow him the right to be a racist, prejudicial jerk. And anyway, what makes you think I want to stoop to his level and deny him equal treatment because of what he believes?"

Chase shrugged and looked back through the glass walls at Thirteen, who was leading the wife and son out of the room. "Suppose that makes sense. Come on." He pushed off the wall when the family and Thirteen turned around the corner and made his way across the hall and to the patient's room.

Thomas, who had his bed bent so that he could sit comfortably, had a white purse (his wife's, presumably) in his lap. When he saw them, he smiled and placed the purse on the bedside table. He looked just as Chase would have imagined a Nazi if he ever cared enough to do so. He had broad shoulders, toned arms, was bald, and had a scar on the right side of his head. Perhaps the vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue could be explained by some massive head trauma but it didn't explain vomiting blood, and judging by how old the scar looked it wouldn't explain how recent his symptoms had presented, unless he was lying about that, too.

"I'm Doctor Chase and this is Doctor Taub," Chase introduced, smiling politely as they approached his bed. Surprisingly Thomas smiled genuinely at the both of them and gave them a slight nod in greeting. "We're here to conduct a medical history."

"Everything of relevance should be on my file," he replied, looking between them as they stood at the foot of his bed.

"Well, we like to be thorough," Chase explained with a quick smile of his own. "So, when exactly did your symptoms present? Early January, some time before that . . . ?"

"I've told Doctor House they started in January."

Taub plucked the chart from the foot of his bed. "The vomiting blood started then too or is that coincidentally new?" he asked, sounding only slightly condescending.

Chase took the charts from Taub when he handed them over and looked. Thomas Jeremiah Mueller, forty-five (although Chase would've pegged him for fifty) and his symptoms were the only things written down on it. Well, the vagueness could've been interesting; perhaps House had been attracted to the patient by the fact he was so clearly hiding something. Perhaps that was the mystery. Except, for a patient, that really wasn't interesting enough. Everybody lied and omitted; so why not take every case presented? Perhaps Cuddy had more of an influence on him that Chase had previously thought.

He glanced up at Thomas, who was staring at Taub. "Are you Jewish?"

"My big honker gave that away?" Taub mocked, raising his eyebrows at him as if daring him to say something.

Thomas chuckled and Chase replaced the chart on the bed and took a step closer to Taub and a little in front of him. "Doctor Hadley took my family out of here for coffee just moments before you two step in, and he did all the talking. The blonde haired, blue-eyed, non-Jewish looking doctor. The nose didn't help any."

Chase hummed, impressed. "You're perceptive."

"No, I'm a neo-Nazi. I got used to people walking on eggshells around me ages ago," he murmured, looking at his lap and biting down on his lip. "You don't need to worry about me. It's mostly my wife who . . . Honestly, I don't actually care."

"Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that," Taub responded, gesturing at Thomas' chest.

Thomas chuckled humourlessly, eyes still resolutely lowered. It would have been silent, if not for the fact his heart rate picked up slightly, the beeping coming in just slightly faster. Chase instinctively checked his BP. "I fell in love with a Jew when I was in med school. I haven't believed any of this for . . . a long time," he revealed quietly, head still bowed so Chase could really only see the shine of his bald head.

The news came as a shock and judging by the fact Taub and him exchanged glances, he wasn't the only one surprised. "Well," Chase started slowly, looking back to their patient, who was still looking at his knees, and his BP elevated a fraction, "regardless of your beliefs, or . . . rather, lack thereof, we still need an accurate medical history if you want a proper diagnosis. So . . . When did all the symptoms present?"

Thomas looked up at them, although he mostly focused on Taub, whose expression was unreadable, then he swallowed audibly. "They started last October. It's . . . when I noticed them. Can't say for sure how long they'd been going on; everybody gets light-headed."

Chase sighed. "And the vomiting blood?"

"I'd say . . . August. Only once. Maybe twice in September. Didn't start happening recurrently until early November."

"Any other symptoms you think we ought to know about?" Chase asked, eyeing the monitor as his BP finally lowered. Probably related to stress or nerves, then.

He shook his head. "No."

"Are you sure? It's all right. It's nothing we haven't heard before."

Thomas smiled genuinely. "I'm sure."

Taub and Chase glanced at each other; if he could lie about being a Nazi and hide not only the symptoms but when they started, how would they be able to trust anything he said? They have to wait and see if Thirteen had gleaned anything from the family. "Right. Is there . . . history of any neurological diseases in your family? Cancer?"

"My father had cancer." He cleared his throat and looked between them quickly. "I expect the doctor-patient confidentiality prevents you from telling my family . . . what I told you?" he inquired carefully, soft eyes hardening and voice hitting a harsh note since the first time they'd entered.

Chase nodded. "We won't say anything."

* * *

House supposed that sleeping in his office chair was possible and probably better, seeing as he had a case and all, but if his team hadn't figured out to check Wilson's office in his absence then they were stupid anyway. Besides, Wilson's couch was more comfortable and he was hanging on to the irrational hope that maybe they were dumb enough to bypass Wilson's office altogether when the patient started coding. Perhaps that was lazy of him, but he'd never really had any false delusions of his flaws anyway, and besides, how could they expect him to save the poor patient when his kidney exploded if he was too tired to function?

Knowing that Wilson wouldn't mind, he used Wilson's coat as a pillow, punched it into a nice, fluffy square, and snuggled deep into his makeshift bed, the scent of watermelon shampoo surrounding him and reminding him that Wilson was probably a woman in disguise. Would that make him kissing Sam girl-on-girl action then? House could maybe go for that.

That was when the door opened and a stream of hallway light hit him right in the retina, he let out a loud, petulant groan.

Thirteen switched on the light, one eyebrow raised and a smug smirk on her face. "Sorry to interrupt your nap, but Sarah decided that she was done talking with me."

"Who?" he asked, sitting up and rubbing his thigh, glaring at her just to make sure she knew he was blaming her for the twinge of pain.

"The patient's wife. I took her down to the cafeteria for some coffee. I couldn't get anything new out of her. She kept mentioning that we had everything we needed in the file, and that she didn't appreciate us treating her husband like a liar. Nathaniel-"

"Wait, I thought the patient's name was Teddy?"

"It's Thomas. Nathaniel is their son. Nathaniel kept asking her to get a soda out of the vending machine but the mother insisted she was not going to let him flirt around with one of his father's doctors. She . . . didn't seem altogether pleasant. Nothing new, except that she prefers tea over coffee. That source is tapped-we're not getting anything from them."

House sighed and grabbed his cane from where it had been resting against the arm of the couch. "Hopefully Taub and Chase will have a font of something _other_ than nothing," he said as he stood out of the couch, ignoring her obvious eye-roll. "While I've got you alone, there's something we need to discuss."

"No, I'm sorry, but I don't date my employers," he quipped casually, shooting off a quick smile and looping her thumbs through her belt loops.

He scoffed. "Do you always use humour to deflect in uncomfortable situations?"

"Well, I had to eventually learn something from you, didn't I?"

"Do I need to start looking for a new employee?" he asked, getting right into her personal space. She blinked rapidly and her eyes shifted around the room quickly before she took a step back and folded her arms. "I give you the time off. I cut some of your hours. You're still unfocused. I need to know if you're planning on putting in your two weeks because I'd rather get a head start on replacing you. Not a lot of hot, dying bisexuals with medical degrees to go around, and I've kinda got attached to your politically correct stripe of colour in our rainbow."

She'd left the door open so he could see the fact the elevator doors were opening and Taub and Chase were exiting. She glanced behind her, probably clued in to the fact someone was coming because House had looked at them, and then swallowed. "I don't know."

"Convenient," he muttered just before Taub and Chase walked in.

"What're you two doing in _here?"_ Chase asked, face scrunched up in confusion.

House shrugged. "Well, we were planning on hiding the body here and framing Wilson, but that just won't do with witnesses, now will it? What did you learn?"

They both spoke at the exact same time, then cut off and looked at each other. Taub sighed. "He lied about the symptoms," he said slowly. "And also, he fell in love with a Jew."

"Good going, Taub. Guess what they say about big noses isn't a myth." Taub sighed and rolled his eyes. "What about the symptoms?"

Chase took a step forward. "He started experiencing most of the symptoms in late October; the vomiting blood started in August, but he said it didn't become recurrent 'til November and his dad had cancer; nothing else medically relevant. I'm not sure how accurate this is, though-I mean, if he can lie to his family about being a Nazi then who knows what else he'll lie about?"

"Yeah, right, if you even believe him," Taub muttered.

"What? You don't think he fell in love with her?" Chase asked, as if not believing him was completely out of the question.

"I think he doesn't want to piss off the people who control what goes in and out of his body until we figure out what's wrong with him."

"He said he fell in love with her in med school. Why would he lie about that?" Chase illogically pointed out.

"Why would he lie about when the symptoms presented?" House rebuffed, ignoring the slightly smug smirk on Taub's behalf. "He's a dentist; he didn't go to medical school. He went to dental school. He's obsessed with image. Introduces himself as _Doctor_ Mueller; mentions something about medical school. Dresses like Daddy Warbucks and whitens his teeth to the point it might blind someone." He waited a beat, then bit down on his lip. "But I believe he fell for her."

"What? You, the person with the bleakest view on love in this room suddenly believes that this-this _Nazi_ fell in love with some Jewish girl?" Taub asked almost harshly.

"I just told you he's obsessed with image. When I asked him to take off his shirt, he got all atwitter with shyness. He didn't want me to see the swastika. He's ashamed of it when he's not ashamed to boast about everything else."

"How is this medically relevant?" Thirteen asked just as Wilson stepped into his office.

Wilson looked at House's team with all the interest of watching paint dry, then sighed, shaking his head while he peeled off his lab coat. "I'll be needing my jacket, House," he said calmly, sticking out his hand and making a come-hither gesture with his fingers.

House picked up the coat that he'd been using as a pillow and handed it over to Wilson. Wilson blindly reached for it, still eyeing the team casually, and his fingers gripped House's, holding them still. His brown eyes ticked away from Thirteen and locked onto him, warmth spreading through House's arm and hitting his chest for some inexplicable reason. An accidental touch wasn't anything new or exciting; especially not for them. How many times had their hands brushed while just walking? Two months' abstinence from touching Wilson must have brought on the realization of each touch full-force.

House pulled his hand free. "What _isn't_ relevant? He's a Nazi who fell for a Jew. How could that not spark your interest?" he belatedly answered. Thirteen was looking at House as if he'd said something in a foreign language and she'd almost understood it.

"What?" Wilson stared at House.

"You need me to repeat that? A Nazi fell in love with a Jew. Disney could make some cute, animated tripe with songs and dancing, but Uncle Walt was an anti-Semite. Who knew?"

Wilson shook the hand not holding his jacket. "W-wait a minute. You took the Mueller case?"

"Did you see Cuddy hand me any other files?" he retorted, and his hand tingled from where Wilson had touched him.

"The dizziness, vertigo, and fatigue one? The _uninteresting_ one?" he pointed out, staring at House strangely.

"Come on; differential time. Can't do that in Wilson's office, now can we?" With that, he strode out of Wilson's office and as his team followed him in triangular formation he inwardly smirked at how well he'd trained them.

"House-wait-" Wilson called and House looked over his shoulder to see Wilson following them.

"Vertigo, dizziness, vomiting blood and fatigue since October-go," he demanded when he pushed open the glass door.

"Why would he lie about when they presented though?" Chase asked.

"Why are we focusing on the why behind the lie when we should be focusing on . . ." House began, then stared at the white board, at the big, bold swastika on it, and the symptoms. He thought over what had happened in the exam room then sucked on his bottom lip a bit as his team settled in around the table in their usual spots. "They presented before he moved," he muttered, mainly to himself, just as the door opened again, a slight huff signalling Wilson's entrance.

"He moved?" Taub said, probably the only person who had heard him since he was sitting the closest.

House hooked his cane over the top of the white board and grabbed the black marker. He wrote 'Arizona' down in all capitals and then faced his team (and Wilson, although House was ignoring him at the moment). "He said he moved here from Arizona in December. He lied about when the symptoms presented because he wanted us to think he didn't have them before he moved."

"His wife said he applied six times since January-he never went anywhere in Arizona for it," Thirteen realized aloud, thinking along the same lines as House was.

He bit down on his lip. "This isn't about him receiving the best care. He wanted me. Specifically. He moved to New Jersey for me to take his case," he murmured, eyes narrowing. It wasn't the first time people had travelled long distance for his care, but why lie about it? Was he embarrassed to need help? Was he hiding something?

"Death camas," Wilson stated and everybody turned to stare at him. Wilson looked unfazed by the attention and just stuck his hands in his pockets casually. "It's a plant that's part of the lily family. Native to the western states. Its looks like a wild, edible onion. Even just one or two bulbs can cause symptoms-if he picked some, brought them along . . . ?"

"Picked enough for seven months?" House stated in disbelief.

"Maybe he likes to cook. Well, and marsh marigolds are edible, but large quantities could . . ." He gestured at the white board and realized that everyone was staring at him strangely. "What? I enjoy cooking. If you'd stayed with the cooking class, House, you'd have learned all about the dangers of inappropriate ingredients and food poisoning. You might have actually found the morbid side of it fascinating."

"It . . . could be eugenol oil poisoning," Taub suggested, turned in his seat so he could read the white board. "When I was a plastic surgeon, we had a few orthodontists and dentists on staff for facial reconstruction, teeth whitening . . . It's from cloves; they use it to reduce pain."

House nodded. "He was a dentist-"

"Orthodontist," Thirteen interjected. "His wife was really adamant about that."

"Whatever. He was an _orthodontist_ in Arizona too and probably picked up the habit there. Trying to escape from his fascist lie of a life. Wouldn't take much to start using it here, too. All right. Chase, Thirteen-you search his house. Taub, you search his workplace. Make sure he hasn't been sucking down poison."

The sound of the chairs scraping back across the floor echoed as they stood, all leaving to do their assigned tasks, and even when the door swished shut behind them, Wilson stayed put, hands still in his pockets and still staring at House in the annoyingly knowing way of his; as if House could say absolutely anything and it wouldn't shock him because he somehow already knew.

"Why did you take the case, House?" Wilson asked quietly after a moment of silence.

"Why'd you bring your coat in the middle of summer?" he retaliated.

Wilson shrugged. "Well, Sam might find it strange if I start bringing a pillow to work," he explained with a one-armed shrug. Although a dry sense of sarcasm tainted his words, House realized Wilson hadn't started bringing his coat to work until the fourth time House had napped on his couch. "Why did you take the case?" he repeated more firmly.

House scoffed and rolled his eyes, taking the cane. "What does it matter? I thought you'd be jumping for joy at the fact the ice prison surrounding my heart suddenly thawed and turned me into an altruistic, loving person," he remarked sarcastically, limping through the door that led into his office, Wilson following.

"Ah, but that would imply I believed there was a prison of ice to begin with."

"Right. You just thought I was always a nurturing, caring soul."

"No, but I'm not stupid enough to think you took this case on because of your naturally caring demeanour," he replied smoothly and House sat down in his chair, narrowing his eyes irritatingly at Wilson, who stood in front of his desk with his arms now folded across his chest and stance a little wide.

House sighed. "The guy vomited blood all over the linoleum after he brandished his swastika tat. What's not interesting about that?"

"I just . . . you've been taking more cases lately and honestly, I'm not complaining. It's good. But . . . I just want to make sure you're taking them for the right reasons."

"The right reason being . . . ?"

Wilson shifted his weight and looked downward for a second before clearing his throat. "Because it's interesting."

"Which leads us back to_ what isn't interesting about-"_

He dropped his arms from his chest and placed them on his hips, pressing his lips together in a thin line. "You had no idea he would vomit blood during the exam. Under normal circumstances you wouldn't have even done the exam in the first place. And now, what? Because he vomited blood? He lies?"

"He lied about being an amoral, fascist-worshipping racist."

"Everybody lies, House. And vomiting blood could be an ulcer; you and I-and probably your entire team-know that."

"What does it matter why I took the damn case?" House snapped.

Wilson, used to House snapping at him, didn't react. "Because your judgment works because it's _yours._ Allowing someone else to interfere with what cases you take, what tests you do, how to think-House, there's a reason why _you're_ the doctor and _she's_ the Dean."

House clenched his jaw and then pressed his mouth to the curve of his cane. He looked at the desk; his wall; the computer monitor. He scratched the top of his eyebrow with one fingernail and then glanced at Wilson's chest before staring at the desk again. "I'm . . . not sure I can ever be fixed. But she treats me like I can," he admitted so quietly he wondered if his voice hadn't carried far enough for Wilson to hear.

"No, she treats you like you _should," _Wilson stated almost waspishly.

House scoffed and glared at him. "Like you're the one to talk, Wilson."

"No, don't-don't throw that in my face, House. I asked you to change your Vicodin intake. I never expected you to compromise your mind, your-your sense of _self_ or-"

"Yeah, well, while we're on the subject of how damn perfect and saintly you are, let's not forget to bring up the fact you've barely talked to me since you kicked me out of the loft to make room for your girlfriend, so how the hell would you know anything about Cuddy?" she shouted.

Wilson closed his eyes against the assault and shifted his weight onto his other foot again, his Adam's apple bobbing. He remained still for a long while, staring at the carpet, and he sucked in his bottom lip for a split second. One hand left his hip and went to the back of his neck and he rubbed, still refusing to remove his eyes from the floor.

After a long second, Wilson turned around and left the door, his head bowed.

House stared at his still tingling fingers.

* * *

A/N-Before I forget to tell you, I did study neo-Nazism by looking at the American Nazi Party site and talking to a former neo-Nazi. Just in case someone is unaware . . . which I doubt . . . they still hate pretty much everything.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

It had been about a half hour since his little outburst in his office, but House was hungry and Wilson was conveniently in the cafeteria and with a few exceptions, neither of them had ever really held grudges over a tiny argument before. Besides, House had conveniently forgotten to care that his wallet was in his back pocket and he had no intention of buying food, so he was planning on filching. Seeing as most doctors, nurses, or patients' family members would've objected to a cranky guy with a cane randomly stealing their fries, he decided he could look past Wilson's grave miscalculation on when he should open his mouth and grace him with his presence.

He saw Wilson's familiar frame, slumped over his plate. He tapped Wilson's shoulder as he passed behind him so Wilson looked in the wrong direction and wasn't facing the opposite side of the table until House unceremoniously plopped into the seat.

"House," Wilson stated as if shocked at his appearance.

"Wilson," House mocked.

They stared at each other for a second, then Wilson cleared his throat and looked at the paperwork he had sitting beside his plate of food. "I see you're just enthralled by your patient's entirely interesting symptoms. So invested are you that instead of sitting here and staring at me blankly you are actually running a tox screen and checking his system for, well, potentially lethal ingested food or diabolical cloves."

"And you're exhausting your ability at memorizing thesauruses." He smirked when Wilson pinched his lips into a thin smile. "I'm waiting until after lunch to test him."

"Why?"

"'Cause I need my vitamins," he replied and stole one of Wilson's fries. Truth was, he didn't really feel like meeting with the patient and having to talk with the family and actually connect to Nazi Guy. "Unlike Teddy-"

"Thomas," Wilson corrected habitually.

"Don't care. Unlike him, I know I'm not going to keel over and die all because I ate a bad onion. Here's an interesting thought-maybe his wife is poisoning him."

Wilson rolled his eyes and looked briefly at his paperwork. "Only you could say that with a note of glee in your voice."

"Why would they pick boatloads of poisonous onions-"

"Death camas."

"-and put them in their food and only one person gets sick?"

"Here's a thought-why would it take months when she could've killed him in weeks without detection? She's not poisoning him, House."

"Seriously? She's a Nazi and you're _still_ delving deep into her soul to find goodwill and love?"

"As far as she knows, he's a Nazi too. Why kill your own breed?"

House shrugged. "She's a domineering bitch. Maybe he shrunk her shirt in the wash."

Wilson scoffed and shook his head, but smiled thinly and looked away from his paperwork. "You've talked to her less than five minutes and you've already figured out this woman's personality?" He clicked his pen and then signed something lazily, blindly reaching for his Reuben sandwich.

"I'm a good judge of character," House boasted, then took another fry as Wilson took a large bite and chewed, a small fleck of sauce on the side of his mouth. House smirked at the thought of one of Wilson's patients staring across the desk at his mouth, too polite to embarrass the good, kind Doctor Wilson by telling him. "Everybody lies about something. About liking _Star Wars_ or never smoking pot. You lied to your wives about working late and they still found out."

"Because I felt guilty and told them," he reminded.

"They were suspicious before you said anything," House pointed out and Wilson nodded once to concede his point. "Lying about a belief is different than how many people you've had sex with or no, honey, you don't look fat in that dress. The bigger the lie, the harder it is to keep it wrapped up. He talked to my team for thirty seconds before he blabbed about his torrid love affair with Anne Frank."

Wilson clicked his pen again and bit down on his lip. He looked House in the eyes and visibly held his breath. "House . . ." He looked at his plate, sighed then looked back at him, still clicking his pen nervously. "House, in your office-what I said-I never should have-"

"Wilson," he interrupted and Wilson's mouth closed with a snap, but his thumb didn't stop pressing the button on the end of his pen. Click. Clickity click-click. Click, click, click. "It's fine. Don't even mention it," he brushed off casually and stole a fry.

"House-"

"No, really. Don't mention it," he ordered seriously, then munched on the fry.

Wilson nodded and looked past House, but not in a way that made him think he was looking at something in particular, still clicking his damn pen. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

"Would you stop that?" House demanded, then grabbed for the pen with his left. He missed and instead he enveloped Wilson's hand, larger and squarer than his; warmer, too, by the feel of it. Although, were he to be honest, it wasn't entirely accidental. He hadn't had the intent of doing it although he had been curious about the way their touch earlier had affected him, and the opportunity had presented itself.

House didn't look at Wilson's face, but he could feel his gaze. He stroked the vein in Wilson's wrist with his thumb, then slid his fingers up the pen before tugging it free. His palm was strangely warm and there was some pressure in his chest area. He ignored both symptoms and waggled the pen temptingly.

Wilson sat rigidly, like preparing to bolt, then he leant across the desk cautiously, as if expecting an attack. House pulled the pen an inch further away right before he grabbed it. Wilson lifted his eyebrows and dropped his chin a little and House just smirked.

At this angle and closeness, the smudge of sauce on the side of Wilson's lip was right in front of his eyes, and House almost laughed when he thought of one of Wilson's patients wiping her own mouth and clearing her throat in an attempt to convey the message.

Wilson swiped at his pen again but House jerked it to the side.

"House, just giv-"

"You have sauce on your face," he informed haughtily, staring at his mouth. Well, not at his mouth. At the sauce. Which looked tasty and was close enough for House to lick. Not that he was considering that or anything.

Wilson's tongue snuck out and wiped the corner clean, the small, pink muscle glistening and House tilted his head. Wilson, from an objective point of view, had nice lips.

Wilson was sitting across from House nonchalantly and signing his paperwork before House realized he'd managed to take his pen back. House's stomach fluttered from lack of food, obviously for no other reason, and he grabbed Wilson's Reuben sandwich.

House watched Wilson, noticing the slight pink tint to his cheeks, and then Wilson frowned, furrowing his brows. He looked at House. "Maybe it's Münchausens By Proxy. She keeps him sick so he can't leave the house," Wilson offered.

"Yeah, 'cause God forbid he meets one of your people and catches The Jew. It's contagious, you know."

"Or maybe he slipped up, like you said. She knows about his . . . past," he suggested lightly, eyebrows narrowed in thought still.

House took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich and chewed, watching as Wilson tapped his own lip with his pen. He clicked it once, stared at House warily, then clicked it several times in succession with a small smirk on his face. "Okay, now you're just doing it on purpose," House accused after he swallowed his mouthful of half-assed cooking.

Wilson chuckled then put the pen down. "Enjoying my sandwich?"

"You should cook more often and leave it in the staff fridge," House told him, placing the sandwich back on the plate and taking a fry. "And leave those funny little anecdotes on them, too."

"Anecdotes? I'm telling you to keep your hands off; not doing stand-up."

"You should give that a try though-the stand-up. 'Cause the fact you actually think I pay attention to your Post-Its is enough to make anybody laugh."

Wilson's objectively-nice mouth curved slightly as he shook his head. "You take them _because_ I use the Post-Its."

"Which would imply you use the Post-Its because you want me to take them," House replied intelligently. When Wilson didn't say anything he knew he had won, and stole another fry in victory.

When he stood out of the chair, Wilson looked up at him. "Where are you going?"

"To go test Nazi Guy. Wanna come?"

Wilson blinked. "I'm busy, House."

"Aw, come on. I'll let you take the blood sample. Poking him could be cathartic."

"I'm not a sadist."

"It's the whole reason why Taub didn't righteously storm off," he persuaded, prodding Wilson in the shin with his cane and pouting, his bottom lip stuck out exaggeratedly.

Wilson barely glanced at House, then stared back at his paperwork. "Darn, I'm still busy with this paperwork. I'll have to join you in on stabbing your patient some other time." He scritched his name down with a flourish, obviously aware of the fact House was still watching him.

"You're so busy you decide to leave your office and do paperwork? If you were that busy you would've ate in your office; not brought it down here. You only bring your paperwork down here when you're _not_ busy but hungry and you think I won't join you," he pointed out.

Wilson sighed and tossed the pen down and looked up at him. "You know, most people would be appalled and a little disturbed to find out you study their eating habits and obsess over everything they do."

"Luckily for me, my best friend is pathologically attracted to people who are so needy they obsess. Admit it-you just don't want to be in the same room as Terry."

"Thomas, and can you blame me?"

"I'm more Jewish than you are," House complained. "Come do tests with me. I'm bored and you have nothing better to do."

"You're more Jewish than-? Oh, that doesn't even make sense," he grumbled, then flipped a page over, shaking his head.

"Hey, I'm dating a Jew. I get some cred for that. Now come on."

"I'm not going."

So House did what any other mature adult would have done. He grabbed Wilson's paperwork, whacked him on the shin when Wilson reached for it instinctively, and limped as quickly as he could out of the cafeteria.

He rushed down the halls to see Wilson hurrying after him. Nurses and doctors stepped aside and rolled their eyes. By now, they must have been used to his crazy shenanigans. He thought it was funny until he glimpsed Cuddy, staring at him with her mouth dropped open and her hands on her hips, apparently stopping short in her conversation with some loser in a blue suit. She started clacking her way over to him and he made a run for the elevators, his thigh stinging with each footfall.

When he made it to his destination, he pounded the call button furiously, willing for Wilson to catch up before Cuddy, and the elevator door almost immediately slid open, indicating it had been on the floor already.

House slid in and pulled the paperwork back seeing as Wilson had thrust inside too, hands reaching for it wildly, and a repressed grin on his face. "House, don't be a child, just hand it over!" he ordered with a laugh, and House lifted it as high as he could, using his height against Wilson.

"House!" Cuddy shrieked as she neared the elevator, Blue Suit in tow.

House prodded the Close Door button with his cane, smirking at his girlfriend's face and knowing he would catch hell for it in a moment, but he was having fun and he wasn't in the mood to have her get all professional and ruin it.

"House!" she yelled through the doors as he banged the floor he needed and slipped away from Wilson, going to the other side, still waving the papers tauntingly.

"Well, there went your chances of getting any tonight," Wilson noted as he lunged for the papers and House side-stepped to avoid the barrelling dork of an oncologist.

"Oh, I'm sure I can change her-hey!" House snapped when Wilson managed to grab House's wrist a bit painfully.

He pulled and Wilson tugged; House dropped his hold when he felt the side of the paper bite into his skin and he didn't want to get a paper cut. Wilson glanced at the fluttering papers and made to grab them and House, never one to lose without putting up a fight, pushed Wilson away a bit more roughly then he'd intended (and Wilson was a bit of a klutz) so he wind milled briefly and then clutched House's arms, somehow thinking his crippled friend could support his weight.

Luckily for them both, Wilson was right in front of a wall and hit it awkwardly, House accidentally jamming his cane right in his gut so he grunted and Wilson's hand, which had clutched House's arm, slipped up and knocked him in the jaw.

"Ouch! God, beating on a cripple, what kind of man are you?" House joked through a chuckle and Wilson laughed, although judging by the odd scoff he made he'd been fighting it.

His laughter seemed to break the odd tension that had been hovering between them lately, like old enemies at a high school reunion, and House started laughing too, muscles slightly weak from the euphoric feeling. He leaned his forearm against the wall above Wilson's head, feeling Wilson's chuckles and air against his mouth and his hand holding his shoulder, as if using it to support his weight.

Wilson's laughter died, turning into one last, deep chuckle, and House felt his heart clench. His forearm still rested against the wall, but this was the first time he really noticed how close their faces were. He felt pressure on his hip and realized Wilson's free hand was touching him there; the other hand was still on his shoulder. Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed and House tilted his head, fingers tightening around the curve of his cane when his breath hitched against his will.

The elevator shuddered to a stop and House pulled away casually. Wilson fell to his knees, scrambling to get his papers in order. The doors opened and House blinked as two people entered at the same time Wilson stood, holding his papers.

Instinctively he stepped beside Wilson as the other two stood at the other side, talking in hushed tones. Their shoulders bumped and the sides of their hands brushed; Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weight, but his hand knocked House's again, almost insistently. Swallowing, House shifted closer and touched his hand again. Touching was normal. They always touched-well, they did before they both started dating others. What wasn't normal was how they reacted to it; awkwardness, lingering tingling and warmth. House figured it was just because it had returned after a period of absence.

The next stop was theirs, or rather his but he was forcing Wilson to come along, so when the elevator stopped and the doors opened, House grabbed the tip of Wilson's paperwork and raised his cane threateningly. Wilson chuckled airily and sighed, pulling the papers free easily. "You're an ass," he groaned, then followed House out of the elevator door.

"And you're a pushover."

"I think I prefer the term enabler."

"I thought you were through with enabling me?"

"And yet . . ." Wilson murmured as they walked alongside each other, closer than they were the day before but still further than before Sam and Cuddy. "You know, normally, you wouldn't even be doing the tox screen or blood tests."

"So why were you harping on me to do them?"

"I always harp on you to do your job. You don't ever actually listen."

"And yet . . ." House mocked. "I'd have my team do it for me, but interesting fact, they aren't here. And I would wait for them to come back, but then I wouldn't get to be an asshole to a Nazi and watch how my best buddy tries to psychoanalyze the patient's self-loathing behaviour and masochism by getting involved with Yentl."

"So this was all some elaborate scheme to get me to talk with your patient so you could . . . watch how I interact with him?"

"He was alone with me and he still spouted off all his Nazi propaganda. He only spouted off his life story when Taub walked in. You're Jewish; maybe he'll actually be honest about everything else he's hiding so I can actually get a diagnosis. She must've been a damn good lay if twenty years later he trusts Jews more than us normal folk." He could see his patient's room now and watch his family through the windows and he sped up his pace now that he could see his destination.

Wilson slowed down and House managed to walk a few feet ahead before he noticed Wilson had fully stopped. He turned around to see Wilson looking over House's shoulder, his jaw set determinedly and hands clenched tightly around his paperwork, crinkling the corner he held. They were only a few feet from his patient's door and Wilson had paled somewhat.

House rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I won't let them hurt you," he promised in his best patronizing tone.

Wilson blinked rapidly. "Right. No. Of course. You wouldn't-yes. I'm fine," he spluttered, then started walking again.

"Seriously, Wilson. I won't let them hurt you," he repeated firmly, no hint of sarcasm in his tone.

House walked into the room first, Wilson following silently. Thomas was fishing through his wife's purse when he looked at House and then his gaze ticked over to Wilson. He stopped looking for whatever it was he needed and silently handed the purse over to his wife, who took it with a glare in House's direction. Their son was sitting in a visitor's chair, one leg draped over the arm while he watched House curiously.

"All righty then-Reich One and Two, I need some privacy with Reich Three so get a move on."

Predictably, the wife let out a scoff and looked him over with a sneer etched on her face. "Anything you need to tell my husband you can say in front of us," she insisted, blinking rapidly.

"Well, since you're neither his guardian or proxy, legally I can kick you out so vamoose." She scoffed and reared her head back, her snarl deepening as her eyes roved over his body again. "I'm going to stick my fingers up your husband's asshole and nudge his prostate. Get. Out."

"I can be here for emotional support-"

"Doctor-patient confidentiality!" he called out like it was the winning answer in a game show competition. "If I say you leave, then you leave. Take it up with the Dean if you have an issue."

"Well, then, why don't we just ask _my husband_ if he's okay with me being in here for emotional support," she stated through clenched teeth and then turned to face him, her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead.

House turned to share a look with Wilson (who was at his shoulder) and roll his eyes, but Wilson wasn't reciprocating. He was instead staring at Thomas and House sighed-before Sam and Cuddy, they would've looked at each other at the same time. They weren't even on the same wavelength anymore. He sighed again and tapped his cane against the floor. With the wife staring at Thomas that way and the fact she obviously controlled the household, there was no way he'd get alone time with the husband to suss out anything else he might be keeping from them. Well, and get the blood and urine samples.

The wife (Sandra? Sally?) continued to stare at Thomas, who was staring at House and Wilson. She waited and then she smacked his shoulder. "What?" he asked harshly, staring at her in confusion and rubbing his arm.

"Dude, Mom, I don't wanna sit 'round here and watch my dad get finger-waved. Let's leave," he suggested, scratching his shaggy mane of blonde hair.

"Well, Nathaniel, you can leave. I'll stay."

"I wouldn't want more people than necessary watching me get a finger in my ass. Come on, let's try and not embarrass Dad. No dude wants his wife watching him get rectally inserted." He stood out of the chair and grabbed his mom's arm's gently and tugged her a little.

House narrowed his eyes and watched as the son met his gaze. Before he could really interpret his expression, his mother pulled her arm free and sighed, looking at Thomas although she was obviously swayed by her son.

"We won't be far, Thomas," she promised, then walked out of the room swiftly, their son following and giving a last, long look at his dad before shutting the door.

House looked at Wilson and gestured at the windows. "Close the blinds," he ordered and Wilson blinked, nodded, then went directly to the blinds just as House moved to stand at the edge of his patient's bed.

Thomas waited until Wilson was standing by House to clear his throat. "You're thinking prostate cancer?" he asked.

"No, I'm thinking you like to metaphorically screw yourself so I thought I'd try for the literal sense. Don't worry, though. Doctor Wilson here has _loads_ of experience with anal insertion-also, he's just your type. Jewish."

"House," Wilson warned, his voice getting slightly raspy in the way it sometimes did when he was uncomfortable with the direction the topic was going.

House glared at Wilson, then back at Thomas. "We're not checking your prostate. I just needed your family out of the room in case you wanted to tell us something you wouldn't want them overhearing. Such as, oh . . . unprotected sex with loads of non-blonde, non-blue eyed, non-Aryan women who most likely don't bother telling you their life stories before you take 'em back to your place and re-enact a more erotic version of _Schindler's List."_

Thomas looked between House and Wilson, then blinked. "There's nothing I need to tell you that would be diagnostically relevant."

"Which is basically a big ol' hardy 'yep' to the unprotected sex department."

"I don't cheat on my wife."

"Yeah, sure," House muttered sarcastically with a glance at Wilson, who met his gaze calmly.

Wilson cleared his throat. "I'll go get what we need," he said, then turned around.

He made it halfway to the door before House caught up with him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from leaving. Wilson glanced at the hand curled tightly around his upper arm, then at House's face. He tugged feebly just once, and House lowered his chin. "Wilson. I need you," he said, his voice lower than he'd intended and it could have been taken the wrong way if he didn't elaborate. "The chance of him opening up to a Jew is more likely than to me. You know that."

"And you're great at sussing out lies," he pointed out before tugging his arm free. "I'll only be gone for a few minutes, House. I'm sure you'll do fine." With that he left the room quickly and House stared at the door.

With a sigh, he turned around and looked at Thomas, who was staring at his lap. House glanced at his heart monitor-it was beeping a little quicker. House scratched the side of his face and walked closer to the bed. "Yeah, I'm thinking maybe I shouldn't have told him you like to kill God's chosen people in your spare time."

"I've never killed anybody," Thomas insisted, meeting House eyes and looking offended.

"Hmm, don't care. What I do care about is why you'd lie about vomiting blood and when the symptoms presented. You wanted to be treated by me-specifically. Why?"

Thomas sighed. "I can afford the best. You are the best."

"Yeah, but I'm also half the country away. You're gonna have to do better than that."

Thomas sighed and stared at the ceiling, and unless House was mistaken (which he never was) he had moisture in his eyes. He rubbed his hand along his face, then looked at his lap again, cheeks shining with wet tears. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then down his face, and covered his mouth for awhile.

House scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I don't actually have all day, unless you want Doctor Wilson to hear. Unlike me, he'll probe and analyze and make you hold hands with your inner child. Me? I'll just mock you, tell you why you're an idiot, but I won't make you examine your feelings and try to make you find peace with your pathetic lie of a life. I'll tell him whatever you say later, naturally, but at least you won't have to endure his Peter Pan pose and listen to him lecture."

"Is he your friend?"

"Is this relevant?"

"You want to know something about me . . . "

"Oh, God. Quid pro quo," he moaned with an eye-roll so heavy his head moved with it. "What do you want to know about me? What about me is so interesting you'd pack up your family and move across the country without even going to other doctors?"

Thomas' Adam's apple bobbed. He took in a shaky breath and his BP increased slightly. "Look, I'm a Nazi."

"No you're not."

"As far as anyone is concerned," Thomas corrected with a slight glare, "I'm a Nazi. Most people don't like Nazis. You have a reputation for not caring about the personal life of your patients unless its medically relevant. In fact, I heard you don't even like to talk to them half the time. You don't care about how I live my life. I wouldn't have to deal with the snide remarks. I wouldn't have to deal with the prejudice."

"You're ashamed of what you are, but you put it on display. Is this some sort of forced poetic justice? Grandpappy made Jews sew a star on their vests so you have to tattoo a mark on your body? You know everybody hates Nazis, you aren't one, but you say you are anyway. You get the tattoo, you marry the blonde bimbo, you raise your son in that lifestyle . . . you hate yourself so you think you deserve everyone else hating you. You want everybody to believe your lie. Unless it's a doctor. Why? You deal with prejudice everyday and even encourage it. So unless you suddenly decided to give a crap about people hating you . . ."

He sighed and rubbed his brows. After he scratched the side of his face looked around the room fleetingly, he sighed again and nodded. "My father had cancer and he . . . was also a Nazi. His oncologist was rude. The entire time he went through radiation, he not only had to deal with his sickness, but snide comments and judgmental nurses. It . . . came back two years later. He died the second time and nobody cared. His original oncologist wouldn't put him on his caseload again; we had to find someone else. If he'd found someone sooner . . ."

"He probably would have died anyway. Boo hoo. You made your bed; you have to lie in it. You dragged your family halfway across the country to have someone hold your hand and play mommy? Well, then, you picked the wrong guy. I don't have a reputation for being nice."

The door opened and Wilson stepped in, smiling wanly. "I'm back," he announced and shut the door.

"Great," House chirped, then grabbed the urine sample cup. "You get to take the blood."

* * *

Pressing his cane against his mouth was soothing and helped him think under normal circumstances, but it wasn't really working. Thomas urinated just fine and willingly gave his blood. Apparently he was scared of needles and his heart monitor beeped quicker when Wilson approached but after some soothing words and a brief hand squeeze (House very nearly retched, but he'd seen Wilson calm down a kicking and screaming child before giving him a tetanus shot so he had to take what he could get) but other than that everything went fine.

Except he didn't believe for a second Thomas was telling him everything. There were no chemicals in his blood and his urine was clean except for some pain killers and alcohol. He'd already lied once about symptoms and if he could lie to his family about his beliefs, he could lie to people he didn't even know about anything.

The door pushed open. "They don't carry eugenol oil," Taub sighed as a greeting.

Chase and Thirteen walked in beside him and they all shared a look.

"Did you all go together?" House asked, looking at each of them in confusion.

"Cuddy called me," Taub said.

"That's absolutely fascinating, but since my girlfriend doesn't have a history of cheating-"

"She called us, too," Thirteen interrupted, her thumbs sliding into her belt loops. "She wanted to make sure we weren't doing anything illegal."

"We told her we were going out to lunch together and we forget to clock out. So we met up halfway and drove here together," Taub explained.

"Did she believe you?"

"Probably not," Chase answered with a shrug. "In any case, we didn't find anything. They like herbal tea and Ibuprofen. He does have a few medical magazines stashed in his room, but not enough for him to have any subscriptions or anything. We thought it was weird that the patient has loads of books on Zen and finding your inner peace-eastern philosophy, a book on medicinal herbs . . ."

"And unless one of those books is titled By The Way, This Is What I'm Lying About I don't care. We all know he has issues with his Nazi life and doesn't believe any of that crap. So he dabbles in Buddhism-tries to find something he does care about so he can cuddle that abstract thought at night while he curls up beside his cold, unfeeling bitch of a wife. I did a urine and blood test. He's clean."

"You did a urine-" Chase began.

"Yeah yeah, I know, I'm being out-of-character," he muttered as he pushed out of the chair, leaning heavily on his cane while he leg throbbed. "So he studies meditation, Zen, inner peace-he's stressed. Add that to the Ibuprofen he probably downs because of the headaches he gets from all the nagging his domineering wife does, and you've got ulcers."

He limped towards the door, but Thirteen stepped in the way. "Ulcers doesn't explain the vertigo, the dizziness . . ."

"No, but lying does. He knows I don't take uninteresting cases. Vomiting blood isn't all that fascinating on its own. Or maybe, here's a thought, that's a symptom of stress too. He's stressed so he doesn't sleep, ergo he gets light-headed. Interesting fact-vertigo, dizziness, and fatigue all sound far cooler than 'oh, I get a little light-headed sometimes.' Chase, give him an endoscopy to confirm. Since he's vomiting blood, that means he'll need a surgery to repair his stomach."

With that he pushed past them and left his office.

* * *

The door burst open with a blast and House strode into her office. "You called my team," he spat.

Cuddy sighed and rubbed her temples. "Your team was missing."

"Oh, wow! Imagine that! I had my team searching for toxins _for my case._ I don't know what that says to you, but to me that says you need to back off and let my fellows do their damn jobs." He stopped right in front of her desk and glared, his blue eyes wide and intense.

"I also assumed that your team broke the law in order to search for these toxins. I can't have your people breaking into people's homes-"

"They've _always_ broken into people's homes!"

". . . while a donor who is considering donating to your department is in the building, especially after the little display you put on earlier today with Wilson," she explained calmly, her voice even and perhaps a little condescending, like one would use with a child.

"Don't patronize me. It's none of his damn business where my team is-as far as he's concerned, they _are_ on a two hour lunch break. You don't need to interrupt them; you could just lie, like you did last night. I'm not going to change my methods just because I'm dating you, so stop holding your breath," he snapped, then spun on his heel and started limping away quickly.

She clenched her jaw. "House," she halted, raising her voice loud enough to make him stop. Although he stopped, he continued to face the door so all she could see was his back. "The donor wants to talk to you tomorrow in your office. Nine o' clock, so don't be late."

She watched as he shifted his weight onto his left foot and tilted his back so she could see the top of his head. When his fingers curled around the curve of his cane tighter so his knuckles whitened she felt guilt fill her chest, dripping into her stomach like some sort of bile.

"I don't like talking to donors," he finally said, shifting his weight again.

"I know. But you need the money," she told him softly, knowing her guilt was showing through her voice.

"You need the money for your reputation so people can't say you're just keeping me here for my good looks," he accused. "I didn't need it before; I don't need it now. Don't try to kid yourself." When he slipped out of her office, Cuddy had no idea whether he had agreed or denied, but she knew he wasn't going to give her anything more than what he already had.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Chase kept his eyes on the monitor while he slid the endoscope down the patient's throat, watching the pink, slimy muscles contract around the tube. Thomas gagged and Chase sighed. "You did use the right amount of anaesthetic, right?" he asked calmly, glancing at Taub, who was staring at the screen adamantly.

"Of course I did," Taub answered.

"Just checking."

"Maybe doubting me in front of the patient isn't the brightest way to go about this."

Chase nodded to concede his point and watched the screen as it slipped into his stomach. Thomas gagged but not anymore than what was normal. "You should consider yourself lucky, Thomas. House doesn't normally even talk to patients. Maybe he likes you."

"Or maybe he likes his girlfriend," Taub muttered.

"You really think this is all Cuddy's doing? Him taking more cases, seeing the patient . . ."

"Wearing ties and shaving? Yes. Cuddy's not dating House for who he is now. She's dating him for who she thinks he will be."

"So trying to have foresight is a bad thing?"

"It's impossible to try and decide how someone will be years later. Making a project out of the person you're dating doesn't ever work."

Chase scoffed. "And you'd know this because of your perfect, blissful marriage?"

"I never said I was the perfect husband, but I have been married for thirteen years. If my wife had married me because some fantastical person from the future was her goal, we wouldn't still be together. She married me for who I was and loves who I am now. What Cuddy is trying is optimistic, but unrealistic. He might shave and wear a tie and watch his mouth a little but a few months down the road, he'll go right back to his normal self and all that'll accomplish is her feeling like a failure and him feeling like a jackass. She'll blame him for being unable to live up to unrealistic expectations she held in her head and he'll become resentful of the fact she held him to such standards to begin with. It's not romance; it's a project. He wants to be the man she needs and she wants to be the woman who fixes him."

Unsurprisingly, Taub spoke with a completely nonchalant tone; as if he were simply commenting on the weather. What he said had the weight of a fact, not an opinion, and all Chase could do was purse his lips and swallow the lump in his throat, staring at the screen while the pink, mucous-covered muscles writhed on the screen. He held the tube tighter in his fingers and took a brief moment to prevent his hands from shaking.

Without meaning to, he thought of Cameron years ago while she obsessed over House; while she pined after some broken, mysterious man who she saw as a hero in a romance novel rather than a misanthropic bastard. She dreamt of changing him; taping together damaged goods.

He cleared his throat. "They've known each other for years. She knows what he's like so she should be able to handle him. Maybe she just doesn't like beard burn and wants him to be look professional."

"And maybe if you catch a firefly it'll grant your wish, too," he replied in a patronizing tone.

Had he been somewhere else, he would've closed his eyes against the burn in his retinas and the memory of dyed-blonde hair shifting in the light, but instead he kept his eyes on the screen.

"There it is," Taub stated a few minutes later, Chase's blurred vision focusing on the sore.

* * *

Wilson clicked his briefcase shut and then rubbed his free hand over his face, the smell of latex lingering. He let out a long sigh, nodded, and then draped his coat over his arm. He pushed open the door and flinched impressively when he saw House standing there with his cane planted in front of him and his chin lowered, an intense gaze focused directly on Wilson's eyes. "Jeez, House!" he exclaimed through clenched teeth. After his heart calmed down, he let out a scoff. "How long were you were standing there?"

The side of his mouth curved upward in a smirk. "Six minutes. Thought about walking in but it occurred to me I haven't seen you shriek like a girl in awhile."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're sufficiently creepy?"

"You were right."

Wilson blinked in shock as he stepped out and shut the door, reaching into his pocket to pull out his keys. "Wow. You've admitted to someone other than you actually being right. Have pigs started to sprout wings?" The lock clicked and he pulled his keys free before putting them in his pocket and turning to face House, who was just staring at him. "So. What was I right about?"

"Tony has ulcers."

"Thomas."

"Him too, probably," he quipped as they walked towards the nearest elevator and Wilson rolled his eyes. "I knew it was an ulcer. I didn't want it to be. Everything came back clean, and I sat around waiting for my team to come to me with a ball of radiation because if he had ulcers, then I took the case for reasons other than its capacity for being interesting."

They stopped in front of the elevator and Wilson sighed, looking at the floor for a moment before looking at House. "If you're going to take uninteresting cases you're going to have to accept them for what they are." He pressed the call button and stared at his warped reflection in the silver doors; at the space between their shoulders and at how awkward and disproportionate they looked. "Uninteresting," he added and swallowed a lump in his throat.

"If I start anticipating uninteresting results, I'll look over the interesting symptoms. Stop looking for the unordinary. Those one-in-twenty rare cases that normally catch my eye will fall into the background, and cases that anyone can cure will take up all of my time."

They fell into an awkward silence for a few seconds until the door opened and they both walked in. They both turned and House pushed the floor they needed. Wilson stared at him but House remained looking forward, his cane planted in front of him and a slight shadow on the bottom of his face; nothing he'd consider a scruff and he could still easily see the slight cut from the day before, but he almost looked like himself.

"You need the harder cases to feed your addiction to puzzles. If . . . you lose that, you can find something else to feed that addiction."

"No I can't. We all know what replaces puzzles," he muttered as he rubbed his thigh and clenched his jaw hard enough that Wilson saw a muscle tense in his cheek.

Wilson finally looked away from House's face so he wouldn't have to watch his expression at what he was about to say. "Then don't take uninteresting cases. No matter who hands them over. If she knows, she'll understand. Tell her . . . Tell her how you feel, and maybe-"

"Right. This coming from the guy who can't even talk to his girlfriend about coasters," House snapped and Wilson looked at him, surprised. "Your latest _JAMA_ had coffee rings on it. Either they've changed the design or you sit and grind your teeth as Sam rests her mugs on your subscriptions."

Wilson ran his hand over his face again, realizing he'd repeated that gesture several times throughout the day. "Yes, fine, you think Sam and I are a bad idea. I understand. You and I aren't the same person, House. It's not your nature to bottle or . . . tiptoe."

"And isn't it your nature to enable me and give long-winded, boring talks about true love saving me from misery or something else probably copyrighted to some cheesy movie on Lifetime?"

"True love?" he repeated, his stomach churning at the phrase. "It's also my nature to lecture and give long-winded, boring speeches when I'm worried about my best friend who could possibly be making a bad decision. I'm not always supportive of your decisions, House. As you may well remember."

"So tell me that you hate Cuddy and get it out of your system."

Wilson looked at House and felt his jaw drop an inch or so. House was staring at him expectantly, lips drawn together and eyes wide. Against his will, Wilson blinked rapidly and worked his mouth like a fish, feeling a flush creep up his neck and spread into his cheeks. When the elevator stopped and the doors opened, House lifted his eyebrows smugly and then limped out.

Wilson stood immobile for a second, then hurried after him. "House," he burst as soon as he was at House's elbow, "I don't hate Cuddy. I just-I never said I didn't like her."

"I hate Sam," he admitted as if it were the great twist in the middle of a story.

"You always hate my girlfriends," Wilson groaned with an eye-roll. "I talk to Stacy, email her occasionally-I haven't had lunch with her since-" he cut off, not wanting to bring up House's brief affair, so he sighed instead. "All three of us got along when you were dating."

"Which proves you like Stacy, who, in case you have an ocular insufficiency, is not my current girlfriend."

Before Wilson could say anything, Chase stepped right in front of House. "House."

House went to move around him, but Chase stepped in front again. When House tried to move around a second time and Chase intercepted, House said; "This is really annoying."

"You were right; he has an ulcer. We've scheduled a surgery for eight. We're keeping him for overnight observation but he should be able to go home tomorrow morning."

"And you thought I'd care?" He scowled and Chase just shook his head before walking off, muttering to himself but not loud enough for Wilson to catch anything.

"Doctors House and Wilson checking out at five-ten," House called as Wilson followed him towards the exit.

"I don't dislike Cuddy. I've never disliked-I've always rooted for you two; wanted you to take a chance with her and-"

"You think me dating her is a bad idea. I'm not a moron."

Wilson opened his mouth to disagree, but realized he couldn't. He wasn't above lying to House but for some reason, he just couldn't about this. The doors opened and they stepped out into the warm, bordering on obnoxiously hot, late afternoon sun, and House continued walking as if they weren't discussing Wilson's opinion of his relationship with his boss. Any other person would have been disconcerted or annoyed; House acted as if they were discussing the shape of clouds.

He sighed and worked his mouth uselessly for a few seconds. "I never meant-I-" House stopped walking and stared at him patiently, awaiting whatever he was about to say. He swallowed, but it didn't help his dry mouth. "Do you love her?" he asked, and the moment the question fell out of his mouth he wished he could take it back because he didn't want to hear the answer. The idea of hearing House say yes made him panic; made him want to plug his ears and walk away quickly. That shouldn't have been his reaction; he should be afraid to hear no, or at least wish for a yes, but instead he just worried that his friend was head over heels for the first time since Stacy and it was with _Cuddy._

House looked downwards. "I don't see how that's relevant."

"Then I suppose what I feel about Cuddy isn't either," Wilson replied coolly, but he felt the panic ebb a little although technically that wasn't an answer.

Their eyes locked with the knowledge that neither could get the answer they wanted unless the other gave away the answer too. Neither could win without losing and Wilson didn't want to know what House had to say, so he could handle not saying anything. House, however, couldn't stand not knowing so it was probably harder for him to keep his mouth shut. Except Wilson knew that House wasn't a moron; he knew that Wilson didn't think he and Cuddy would last. So it was just a matter of wanting Wilson to say it.

Wilson was the first to look away and he focused on the small scab on the side of House face. He reached forward to touch it, but his hand hesitated in mid-air. He looked into House's blue irises again, hand frozen halfway to the side of his face, and he felt his heart start beating faster. He thought of their closeness in the elevator and of House grinning while he sat on the bench to his organ; he thought of hearing House's voice on the other end of the line and the smile he felt grow on his face against his will every time.

He lowered his hand and, like so many times before, pushed all of that into his gut. "You look better unshaven," he revealed, not for the first time in their friendship.

House narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side as if he'd gotten the answered he wanted. "I know." Without another word, he walked away from Wilson, his uneven step matching the uneven, unbalanced noises of his feet scuffing the asphalt and his cane ticking, and he left Wilson on the sidewalk.

* * *

Seeing as James had made her breakfast in bed, Sam thought it only fair she made him dinner. Considering they'd had a great start to the day she'd assumed it would carry on into the evening. At least he hadn't gone off with House without telling her again; that had annoyed her, but she supposed she could understand his situation. He and House really hadn't talked much since House had moved out of the loft, and to be honest Sam didn't mind. It wasn't that she didn't want James to have friends or completely push House out of his life, but she knew House wasn't above doing anything and everything to ruin her second chance. He'd told her as much during the dinner he'd served. To be honest, she was glad that he'd finally found someone other than James to fill his life; someone else to obsess over.

She didn't want to become a threat to James' friendship but she wanted their relationship to work more. She wasn't naïve-she knew House would do anything to keep James to himself if he had nobody else. To her, Cuddy was a blessing. She didn't want James to lose House, but if he did she wouldn't mind. House was more of a threat than Sam was; if it came down to it, she knew she couldn't compete. So, really, she actually liked the fact that James and House had slipped apart-if that made her a bitch then so be it, but she had to look out for what was important to her, just as House felt he had to look out for what was important to him. The only difference was that she wouldn't go out of her way to end them; House, on the other hand, was not above sabotaging their relationship.

So yes, she had felt threatened and nervous when Wilson had conveniently forgotten to tell her he was going out with House. At first she'd worried he was having another affair, but . . . well, maybe he was. She wasn't naïve; she'd seen the way House had stared longingly at them when they kissed in front of him. She saw the way House pushed his way into James' space, and the way James let him.

Still, he hadn't lied about working late; that was promising. If he were having an affair with House, he surely wouldn't have told her that they'd gone out together. A part of her wished that they were, because sex was just sex; what they had was something else.

But dwelling on worries and past mistakes didn't help anything, so she pushed those thoughts aside. What bothered her more than that was James had been distant since he'd come home; just like the first time they were together before the affair; before their marriage derailed. She tried to get him to open up to her but the moment he started to be honest-the second his voice started to raise-he'd run away, just like before. She knew for a fact he didn't tiptoe around House; why would he tiptoe around her? How could she compete with that, and how could she be blamed for wanting House out of the picture? Maybe not completely, but that wouldn't have bothered her.

James had been kind and talkative during dinner, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere. She'd loaded the dishwasher as he'd decided on something to watch, and then curled up next to him, dropping a head to his shoulder. He hadn't pushed her away, but he'd stiffened and a few minutes later had to use the restroom, and when he came back he sat with a foot of space between them. Everything they spoke about was little more than small talk, and he never met her eyes.

It wouldn't have bothered her so much except that they'd been steadily getting to this point. It wasn't as bad as it had been, but it was getting there.

It wasn't until Sam was getting ready for her shower and James was hovering (not obviously; just following her into the bathroom as if he wanted to talk) that she turned to him and asked; "Is everything all right?"

He opened his mouth and his brown eyes shone, then he licked his bottom lip and nodded. "Everything's fine."

"James," she warned, stepping closer to him, surrounded by the pearly, shiny white of their bathroom. "Come on. Is everything all right?" she repeated, rubbing his shoulder briefly.

He chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head at the floor. "It's just-it's . . . nothing, really, I-" He dropped his hand from his neck and put his hands on his hips, then looked at her; really looked at her for the first time since he'd come home; the first time in days, really. His nervous, awkward smile faded, and then he said; "It's just . . . House. I'm sure you don't want to hear," he grumbled.

He was right; she didn't want to hear about House, or why he'd managed to make James so distant when he'd come home. So instead of asking him to elaborate, she just put her hand on his arm and smiled at him. He smiled too, but it didn't reach his eyes; it was just a reaction. She leaned forward and kissed him briefly, and when she pulled away he stared at her, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"He, um . . . asked me if I hated Cuddy," he revealed although she hadn't asked him to confess.

"Do you?"

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and stepped away from her, turning around and then rubbing the back of his neck. "I can't just-Sam, after all the pushing and encouraging I did, I can't just . . ."

"So tell _me_ you hate Cuddy and get it out of your system," she suggested calmly, although a part of her didn't like hearing it because that meant she was right last night; he _was_ jealous which meant a whole new list of problems.

Wilson turned around and stared at her as if she'd said something more interesting than she had. He blinked a few times, then reached forward and kissed her, his tongue insistent and mouth rough. It shocked her enough that she stumbled backwards a foot or so and he wrapped one arm around her waist. It was random, perhaps a bit too rough, and after his detached, strange behaviour since he'd come home, she just wasn't in the mood even if he suddenly was.

She pulled away and out of his grasp. "James, I'm trying to get ready for bed," she explained as politely as she could.

He stared at her as if he hadn't seen her until just then, then smiled at her and took an awkward step backwards. "Right. Of course, it's-sorry. I just . . . had a stressful day," he finished, looking past her. He nodded slightly and smiled half-heartedly. "Goodnight, Sam." He turned away and then walked out of the bathroom.

She looked into the mirror and frowned, recognizing his behaviour. It was only a matter of time now before they failed.

* * *

Generally, House liked evenings with Cuddy. That wasn't to say they were always perfect, but they were usually nice. They had dinner, sat on the couch and drank some wine, House read over a medical magazine or talked about his patient to Cuddy; he babbled incessantly about whatever he happened to be obsessing about at the moment and she massaged his shoulders. It was all very . . . domestic. It wasn't horrible. It was pleasant enough. It wasn't what he'd had with Stacy or what he'd had with Wilson when they lived together, but it was new, and what he expected.

When he'd made it home, he'd made it just as their nanny was driving away, which meant Cuddy had probably beaten him home by a minute or two. When he'd made it inside she kissed him quickly on the mouth then hurried over to the stove to finish cooking whatever it was she was cooking, and Rachel babbled in the living room and tottered around in a circle. She didn't look to greet him as he walked in, not that he'd expected her to or anything; he wasn't her father. Hell, he hadn't even meant to move in; it had just happened.

He'd watched television and then ate dinner, thinking over Wilson's behaviour. Obviously Wilson didn't think he and Cuddy were a good idea; he'd given a lecture when House had told him that he'd moved in, and he'd been making gentle remarks about Cuddy not being good for House, which was actually interesting considering before they started dating Wilson had been trying to play matchmaker. That actually wasn't entirely accurate-Wilson had stopped playing matchmaker when they'd found out about Lucas. Still, Wilson was too nice to ever come right out and say he didn't like Cuddy but House wanted to hear it. He wanted to have Wilson tell him that they weren't going to last; didn't want him tiptoeing around the subject as if House were anybody else in his life; he didn't want to be comparable to Sam. He wouldn't have watched his words before they were dating others and House didn't want him watching his words now.

A few moments before the time Cuddy normally went to bed, House pushed into the bathroom and stood behind her, watching as she brushed her teeth. The bathroom wasn't as spacious as Wilson's, but Cuddy brushed her teeth twice a day just like Wilson did. He watched her reflection and her profile at the same time and narrowed his eyes while her hand worked the toothbrush. Toothpaste didn't froth around her lips or at the corners; she brushed them delicately.

"You're left-handed," he pointed out as he walked closer, eyeing her soft mouth; washed free of lipstick. Her makeup was gone, too, and she was only wearing her nightgown.

She glanced at him through the reflection, then leaned down and spat into the sink. "You've just realized this?" she asked before taking a sip of water out of her small glass she kept by the sink.

He shook his head and then leaned against the sink, his left hip digging into the edge a bit. He'd noticed before but he just hadn't really ever thought about it. "Wilson's left-handed too," he told her, and he thought about Wilson reaching up and almost touching his face; his left hand inches from his cheek.

She stood up straighter and pushed her bangs out of her face. "And?"

"I'm not always going to take cases you give me just because you ask," he blurted and she blinked at him, as if surprised he would say such a thing, but then she just nodded and smiled slightly, as if trying to pretend she wasn't upset. "Thomas Mueller has an ulcer. Anybody could have guessed that."

She pressed a finger to her temple; her left hand and her left temple. Wilson sometimes did that, too. "I'm sorry, House. I . . . overreacted. He isn't the first person who's continually asked for you to look at his file and I was just upset because . . . This is stupid, but because you didn't eat the pancakes."

House recalled throwing them in the garbage without even trying them, and tilted his head. They stared at each other, and her eyes moved over to his cheek. She reached forward and touched the cut. "You nicked yourself shaving," she realized a day late, touching his face in the way Wilson almost had.

He kissed her gently, holding her face and pressing his tongue past her teeth. She hummed pleasantly and he manoeuvred her so her back was against the sink. She wrapped her arms around his chest and he pushed his body against hers more persistently. When she moaned and slid her hand down his back, he nipped at her jaw and the door opened hard enough to smack the wall.

He pulled away and looked over his shoulder to stare at Rachel who stood illuminated in the doorframe. "Dammit!" she giggled, and the scent of baby poop filled the room.

"Swearing in front of Rachel recently?" Cuddy asked with an eye-roll, then pushed away from the sink and walked towards Rachel. Rachel's hand slipped in through hers and Cuddy just shook her head while she laughed. "Goodnight, House," she muttered and took her daughter out of the bathroom. "Don't forget to shave tomorrow," she reminded, then left.

It wasn't until he heard Cuddy speaking in her overly-cutesy voice all the way from Rachel's room that he turned towards the mirror and held his jaw in his hands, calloused fingers scraping across the stubble.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_Don't forget you have a meeting with a donor in your office at nine am._

_xx, Lisa_

He scoffed and jerked the Post-It note off of the mirror. "X's are hugs, not kisses," he muttered to Rachel who was sitting on the toilet seat, staring blearily at the wall in front of her. Her hair was still damp and she smelled of the shampoo she'd dumped into the water and splashed all over the walls and floor. It was a flowery scent; something that was supposed to resemble roses but House couldn't smell the resemblance. At least Wilson's shampoo had actually smelled like watermelons.

"X is letter," Rachel corrected, small legs swinging leisurely.

House sighed and looked over at Rachel, who was now looking at him as haughtily as a toddler could. "Hop off the toilet; I'm going to show you something," he told her.

She did as she was told and he marvelled at that fact; he would have to mark it on his calendar. She didn't even whine. He gestured for her to walk over to him and she did. He showed her the Post-It, pointing at the X's scrawled hastily by Cuddy's name. "Sometimes people sign letters with X's and O's. Most people think X's are kisses, but they're not."

"X is letter," Rachel repeated firmly, blinking at him.

"Yes, I know," he replied shortly. "But when they sign X's and O's they're supposed to . . . represent kisses and hugs. She thinks these are kisses."

Rachel didn't do anything to show she'd understood, but she didn't act like she was confused, either, so he just turned towards the make-up drawer. "People assume X's are kisses because people think kisses are more intimate and the letter X has a bit of a reputation for . . . representing intimacy," he continued, uncaring if Rachel understood or even wanted to know. He fished around in the make-up drawer until he pulled out a thin tube of mahogany-coloured lipstick. He uncapped it and slowly slid the long stick upwards, grinning at it. He had yet to see this colour on her; it must be new. "Apparently these people have yet to experience a really good hug."

Rachel shut the make-up drawer loudly.

He pressed the Post-It against the sink and began to write sloppily. "When you purse your lips to kiss someone, your mouth looks like a circle," he explained further, scoffing at the way the lipstick smudged and looked against the yellow paper.

He lifted it and examined what he'd scrawled. _X's are hugs._

He stuck it to the mirror. "When you hug someone, you arms cross against the back of the person so it resembles an X."

And Rachel hugged him.

He glanced down in shock, watching as she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and buried her face into his thigh. Without meaning to, he scowled and felt his face scrunch up as if he'd smelled something rotten, and before she could look up and see his expression of disgust, he put his hands on her small shoulders and pushed her away, unnerved at the unpleasant churning in his stomach. A child hugging him-especially one he was caring for-should not have elicited nausea, and yet it had.

Although he had tried to act nonchalant as he pushed her away, he must not have been able to hide his face from her or maybe she clued in on his rigid body language, because her chin wobbled. "Hoss, I just hugging," she warbled.

"I don't like people touching me," he muttered as he rubbed his eyebrow, staring at the mirror-at the Post-It note blocking his view of his forehead. His scruff was far more noticeable now, although it wasn't quite to his normal standard-or, rather, what his standard used to be before he started dating Cuddy. It looked like perhaps he'd trimmed his five o' clock shadow to look respectable for a date; not shaved entirely.

Rachel went over to the toilet and started banging the lid repeatedly, and he grabbed his razor and shaving cream, clenching his teeth against the loud racket.

It wasn't until he looked at the mirror the second time with a can of shaving cream in one hand that it struck him-he and Cuddy could work. For the first time since they'd gotten together, he'd realized that they might not be a complete and total disaster. It wasn't that his thoughts were consumed with them failing; he just tried not to think of the future. With Stacy he'd assumed they would last and he'd been wrong; since then, he tried not to focus on relationships except in the present sense. Thinking of what was to come felt like setting himself up for disappointment, except for perhaps with Wilson. He often thought about him and Wilson in terms of the rest of his life; as a constant. He hadn't yet thought of Cuddy in that way, but here he was, standing in front of a mirror in a Navy-blue suit with the collar undone and a can of shaving cream in one hand while Rachel threw a tantrum and he determinedly ignored it, knowing that if he played into her games then it would only enable that behaviour.

Theoretically, five years from now he could be barbecuing in their backyard while Rachel played in a paddling pool; with or without the His apron draped over his torso. After all, half a year ago he would have thought it impossible he'd be shaving his beard in order to get ready to talk to a donor while Rachel shrieked beside him; he would have never assumed he and Cuddy would have discussed alternating cooking meals and the issue with her using their relationship to make him take boring cases.

He should have felt elated; instead he felt nauseous, like realizing a second too late he'd taken that turn far too sharp and he was going to crash into the asphalt, road scraping through his clothes and dragging along his bloody skin.

Forever. With Cuddy and Rachel. Coming home, every day, to Cuddy, watching Rachel grow; catching Rachel smoking weed in her room; catching her topless on the couch with her boyfriend (or girlfriend). Unlike with Wilson, the reassurance that he and Cuddy could make this work-that they could last-did not fill him with confidence or help him relax with just knowing. Quite the opposite, actually.

Fear of commitment, he heard Wilson, Cuddy, and Nolan all say. He'd reply with the fact he believed in monogamy and he didn't want to be alone anymore; that he hadn't feared commitment with Stacy at all. Each of them replied in turn about how she'd hurt him; that he was responding to the years-old sting of previous rejection.

He stared at his scruffy jaw, then placed the can of shaving cream on the sink and stepped away from the mirror. Rachel banged the seat and he swallowed the dry lump in his throat. "I look better unshaven," he justified as he grabbed Rachel's hand and led her out of the bathroom.

* * *

When it came down to it, the decision was relatively easy. The steel grey and blue striped tie Cuddy had laid out for him alongside the tux, which he assumed she'd bought for him, or the deep burgundy that shone almost cherry-red when the light hit it; the tie Wilson bought him. It was easy because the red tie stood out and didn't wash his face of colour; it actually looked better on him. The striped tie looked dull.

He was pacing the length of the living room while Rachel chewed on her slice of orange for breakfast. Cuddy made some oatmeal and left it in the fridge for House, but he wasn't a fan of maple-flavoured oatmeal drenched in soy milk, so he was planning on stopping at McDonald's. Well, if the nanny ever decided to grace him with her presence. It was seven-fifty-five and the nanny hadn't showed yet, not that he'd expected her to although he'd been hoping since Wilson had texted him awhile ago to tell him that he'd had an early morning and wanted to know if he could pick House up and take him to work.

House only agreed because it was a free ride and because he knew that Wilson only had an early morning because he and Sam were deteriorating; she'd probably decided to drive herself to work.

There were a few quick knocks on Cuddy's door and House almost smiled, but of course he didn't. "You don't have to knock!" he called and the door pushed open to reveal Wilson. "I never do," he added when Wilson shook his head and shut the door.

"And we should all aspire to be as civilized as you," Wilson muttered and walked into the living room, clapping his hands together and letting out a breath. "Ready to . . ." His eyes fell onto House for the first time and Wilson's expression changed into something softly appreciative like every other time House had bothered to dress nicely. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked him over. "You look nice," he complimented.

"I have to talk with a donor," he explained. "I wore your tie."

"I noticed. It . . . looks good." Wilson looked at his own clothes; neatly pressed khakis, shiny shoes, pristine white shirt and a god-awful pale yellow tie. He looked back at House and rocked on his heels. "I would've been here sooner but I got stuck at one of the lights."

"Damn right you better apologize. I'm such a stickler for punctuality."

"You always were an early bird," Wilson conceded sarcastically, a small curve of a smile on his face. House rolled his eyes and then glanced at Rachel to make sure she wasn't sticking something toxic into her mouth. She waved at Wilson, then turned back to the television.

House checked his watch and sighed. "The donor wants to talk to me at nine sharp."

"We'd better leave by eight, then. I'm not sure you'll make it on time even if we do; the traffic was a bit . . ." He shrugged vaguely and then looked around the living room as if he'd never been there before and wanted to memorize it, despite the fact House knew Wilson had visited Cuddy several times.

"Not my fault she's throwing a hissy fit. If Cuddy wanted her kid to learn Spanish she'd buy bilingual DVDs." Wilson furrowed his brows in confusion at House, and it took him a moment to realize he'd never actually explained the situation with the nanny to Wilson, which caught him off-guard because that was something he would've called him up to joke about at three in the morning a few months ago. "Cuddy gets annoyed when Rachel spouts off in Spanish. I told the nanny to knock it off."

"The last time I picked you up?" Wilson recalled.

"Yeah."

"Do you even know the nanny's name?"

House scoffed. "I don't know my patients' names half the time. Why would I give a damn?"

Wilson's smile was pinched, but there. He glanced at the floor briefly, then back at the tie he'd secured around his neck. "It really does look nice, House," he complimented again, gesturing at it with his chin, his hands still in his pockets, almost nervously. House barely nodded. Wilson rocked on his heels a little. "It would look better if it wasn't crooked, though."

"Hey, you're lucky I even know how to tie the damn thing."

Wilson tilted his chin down so it rested against his chest, and then stared at House through lowered lids. After a small second, he walked forward and grabbed House's tie, loosening it and straightening it, eyes fixed on the half-undone knot. It was not the first time Wilson had fixed his tie; it was, however, the first time Wilson had fixed his tie and stood this close; glanced up at him briefly through lowered lids and a boyish, innocent smile on his face.

House narrowed his eyes.

"Wilsa!" Rachel shouted and they both turned to face her, Wilson fingers still curled around the tie and the scent of watermelon shampoo almost overwhelming. She'd hopped off of the couch and was pointing dramatically at Wilson, her eyes wide. "He not like touching!"

House and Wilson looked back at each other and Wilson raised his eyebrows inquisitively before quickly rearranging the tie and stepping back. House scratched his brow with his thumb and Wilson just pinched his lips shut, trying to prevent a chuckle but failing when House tried to repress a chuckle too and ended up half-scoffing.

"My apologies," Wilson finally said with a smile, bowing his head slightly in Rachel's direction.

House wondered if Wilson thought it strange Rachel knew his name; then again, Wilson had visited Cuddy quite a bit when she'd first adopted, and House did talk about him often, so maybe it wasn't all that surprising. House hadn't realized quite how much he did talk about his friend until he noticed Rachel recognized the name, though.

He looked at his watch-it was seven-fifty-nine. He met Wilson's eyes for a second and Wilson offered him a small, sympathetic shrug.

"You and Sam get into a fight last night?" House asked.

"No," Wilson answered, staring at him in confusion. "Why would you ask that?"

"You offered to give me a ride to work, which means Sam drove to work and you didn't want to be alone. You only not want to be alone on your way to work when you feel lonely, and you'd only feel lonely if you wanted someone with you-and since Sam isn't, I can guess it wasn't your choice. If you were still angry you wouldn't have picked me up-you'd be at work already. You speed when you're angry and you don't like to be around me when you're in a bad mood, which means you got over it last night."

"We didn't fight. Sam and I are just fine."

"You fought."

"No, House. We really didn't." He looked around the living room again and rocked on his heels. "Well, last night I was in the mood to-" He glanced at Rachel, then cleared his throat. "But, well. It was getting late; Sam wanted to get ready for bed . . ." He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal.

"Sam is Wilson boyfriend?" Rachel asked innocently.

"Sam's a girl," Wilson told her patiently with a small smile.

"Tch, only by technicality. Everyone knows you're the girl in the relationship," House teased.

Rachel lowered her head and gave Wilson that haughty expression she'd given House earlier. "Sam a boy name."

"It's short for Samantha. It's . . . a nickname. She's my girlfriend."

"Mom boyfriend gone, so Hoss baby-sit," Rachel explained, and House felt his chest tighten. He looked at the floor but he could feel Wilson's eyes on him.

Before Wilson could say anything, the door opened and the nanny walked in. She didn't even glance at House or acknowledge the fact Wilson was there; instead, she brushed on by and Rachel ran towards her. They hugged and greeted each other, and House limped out of the door, cane ticking against the porch and down the walk. He was inside the Volvo before Wilson was halfway down the sidewalk.

Wilson got into the driver's seat and took his time putting on his seatbelt and rearranging the rear-view mirror. House wasn't a moron; Wilson was trying to give House time to open up about what had just happened; how he felt about Rachel bringing up Lucas. House resolutely stared out of the window and into the passenger mirror.

The Volvo thrummed into life.

"You didn't shave," Wilson aired when the car pulled away from the curb.

"I look better unshaven."

There was a beat of silence in which House was sure Wilson smirked, but he would never be sure seeing as he was staring out of the window. Had he been in Wilson's situation, though, he would've smirked. "You were right."

"And you were wrong," House countered, staring at the way the passenger mirror framed his face. "About what?"

"I don't like you dating Cuddy," Wilson admitted quietly.

House finally turned and looked at Wilson, who stared out of the windshield as if he were alone. Wilson's lips were pressed closed tightly and his jaw tensed. All House did was smile and then look out of the window again.

* * *

Traffic was horrible. Due to a small collision in which nobody was hurt, except for maybe a bruised jaw from the right hook one man gave another, four blocks from the hospital they'd been totally gridlocked. It hadn't helped that the nanny had decided to show up at the very last minute, or the fact that Cuddy and the donor had scheduled the meeting at precisely nine am; as soon as his workday began. Wilson tried his hardest to get there as quickly as possible; he even sped.

That was why House limped his way into the lobby at nine-fifteen and why Wilson had to intercept Cuddy on her way to yell at House for being late. All that interception accomplished, from the looks of it, was Cuddy raising her voice to Wilson and gesturing angrily at his face and Wilson continually preventing her from rushing past and yelling at House.

The elevator had been full of people and they needed to stop on every floor on the way to his which he knew should've annoyed him but really he didn't care. In fact, he'd hoped the donor had given up and went home; he didn't need any extra money and he didn't want to talk to some pompous ass about whether or not he was deserving of his job. House knew he was a genius and that he was great at diagnosing people; he didn't need a signed check to validate that. In fact, the only reason he even needed the donation was to prove that Cuddy wasn't letting their relationship rule her decisions.

House wasn't a moron, either. He knew what people said behind their backs (and to his face; to hers, too, if she pissed them off enough). He knew she was a woman in a traditionally male field dating someone who annoyed everyone and did potentially dangerous things to his patients. Nobody liked him and pretty much everybody wanted him to get fired; the rumours weren't new. Neither were the slanderous insults; slut, whore, sloppy seconds; manipulative bastard, thrill-seeker, addict . . .

What Cuddy either didn't know or purposely failed to recognize was that people were going to think that regardless of their relationship or how many people donated to him.

When he finally made it out of the elevator and limped his way to his office, he saw someone sitting at his desk patiently and he groaned, rolling his eyes. Apparently, the donor had decided to wait around for-House checked his watch-eighteen minutes. He pushed into his office and then casually sat in his chair.

"You're late," the donor stated.

House recognized him as the man wearing the blue suit who'd seen him running away from Wilson. Today he was wearing a dark green suit with a matching tie. His long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and he had a goatee. His cologne wasn't strong, per se, but it permeated the air a bit more than necessary.

House made a show of acting surprised when he stared at his watch. "Would you look at that!" he gasped. The donor's expression remained unreadable.

"You're not going to make excuses?"

"Did you want me to?"

The donor shrugged. "I'd like to know what was more important than our meeting."

"Aren't we so very haughty this morning."

"Most people tend to explain why they're twenty minutes late when money's on the line."

"Well, as you can see, I'm not most people," House retaliated.

The donor's black eyes roved over his body in a scrupulous manner; as if trying to detect some flaw, and House was sure there were plenty. "Blue suit and a red tie. Bold choice."

"I'm a bold kinda guy."

"Well, you know what they say. Clothes make the man." The donor smiled thinly and then sat up straighter. "I saw you yesterday. Your tie had four-leaf clovers on it. And Doctor Wilson was chasing you." He raised an eyebrow at House. "Doctor Cuddy apologized fifteen times for your behaviour and reassured me at least eight that the two of you were normally very composed men."

"We have a bad influence on each other. Except, well, it's more like I have a bad influence on him and I'm not very composed at all," he answered truthfully just as his phone beeped, signalling he'd gotten a text message. Seeing as House didn't care about appearing professional and also because his team often abused their texting privileges to tell him about his patient coding, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket without even bothering to explain.

The donor sat up straighter. "Let's cut to the chase, then. I'm Duncan. I've . . . heard interesting things about you." He probably assumed House had taken the text in fear it was a dying, interesting patient whose life hung by a thread.

In reality, it was just Wilson. _Cuddy's on her way. She took the stairs. _

House groaned and then shut his phone. "I'm sure you have. It's the only reason you'd stick around for eighteen minutes after being blown off for dinner with a friend and watching me play tag."

Duncan tilted his head to the side. "Dinner with a friend? I was told you were with a patient."

House would have blanched and winced were he the type of person who thrived on donations. Seeing as he didn't care, he just shrugged. "She lied. Look, if you're going to donate money to my department, you're going to donate because I'm a damn good doctor-not because I participate in circle-jerk conversations and play nice. I forgot we were having dinner at my place because something more important came up-dinner with Wilson. And yes, before you ask, dinner with him _is_ more important than your money to me.

"And if clothes make the man, then I hate suits, I _especially_ hate ties, and I'm wearing sneakers. I was late because I told my girlfriend's daughter's nanny to stop speaking Spanish around the kid and so she's taken it upon herself to show up late in payback and some idiot got into a fender-bender on the way here," he practically blurted, and surprisingly it felt more like he was getting something off of his chest rather than bitching out a donor who'd probably never had any real intention of donating to him in the first place.

Duncan blinked slowly and tilted his head in the other direction. He stood out of his chair and House sighed, knowing that Cuddy was going to be pissed when she found out he wasn't getting the money. "I appreciate your honesty," Duncan said slowly.

"I'm an honest sort of guy," House brushed off with a shrug.

"Arrogant, too."

"I have cause to be."

Duncan stared at him for a long moment, then nodded once and went towards his door.

House watched through his glass walls as Cuddy almost bumped into Duncan just as he stepped out of his office. They stopped, spoke for a few seconds, and then Duncan went on his way, leaving Cuddy to look at House through the windows. Her hair wasn't perfect; it looked like she'd run her hand through it a few times.

Cuddy walked in and pursed her lips at him. "That was a short meeting."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up on a donation," he told her.

"I stopped hoping when you walked in twenty minutes late," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

"It's not my fault Rachel's nanny decides to come in at the last possible minute. Or that fact people drive like morons."

Cuddy furrowed her thin eyebrows and then lowered her arms from across her chest. "What are you talking about?"

"Some moron rear-ended a steroid-pumping jock who thought that getting into a fist-fight would somehow make traffic go smoothly."

She shook her head. "No-she was late? Again?"

"Yeah," House chirped, getting out of his chair and took off his suit jacket. Cuddy continued staring at him, her brows still furrowed in confusion. "I . . . told her to stop speaking Spanish around Rachel," he admitted quietly with a shrug.

Cuddy's demeanour softened slightly and she had a barely-there smile on her face. "You didn't have to do that," she told him.

"I know." He hung the jacket over the back of his chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Vending machines. I had to skip breakfast."

For a moment she looked offended, but then she tilted her head. "That's not the tie I picked out," she realized. She didn't sound angry or irritated so much as observant.

"Wilson bought it," he told her, then walked past her and out of his office.

She clacked her way beside him. "It looks really nice on you."

"Which is why I picked it instead."

"You forgot to shave," she pointed out uselessly.

"I also look better unshaven."

The elevator doors dinged open just as he made it to Wilson's door. Considering he'd gotten his text warning him about Cuddy he'd expected Wilson, but it wasn't. It was his former patient, wearing the clothes from when he'd been admitted. He was halfway towards them when he stopped walking and House dropped his hand, halfway towards Wilson's doorknob. He wondered vaguely if his Jewish girlfriend knew Thomas was a Nazi when she made him take the case, but he doubted she had any idea.

"What?" he demanded, glaring at him. "Unhappy with the diagnosis?"

"No, not as . . . such. I just figured it was something . . . more dire." Thomas shifted his weight onto his other foot and clenched his jaw; his hand briefly closed into a fist, but he didn't seem angry or upset otherwise.

"Why are you here, then?" House demanded, turning to push open Wilson's door. It was locked, so he let out a sigh. He looked over his shoulder and at Thomas, who was watching him cautiously. Cuddy was watching him too. "To fall on bended knee and thank me profusely?"

"Well, um-actually . . ." Thomas's cheek twitched, then he cleared his throat. "Yes," he settled warily.

House rolled his eyes just as the elevator door dinged open. House pushed past Thomas and Cuddy and limped his way over to Wilson, who froze when he stepped out of the elevator to see House coming towards him with his patient and girlfriend in tow.

"Uh . . ." was his eloquent greeting.

"I need twenty bucks," House demanded, opening his palm. Wilson looked at Thomas, who was standing behind House, and then at Cuddy, who was standing by his elbow. "Don't worry about the inquisition. They're just here to make sure you don't put the Sheeney Curse on me," House said, making a 'gimme' motion with his fingers, palm still outstretched.

"Hey!" Thomas snapped, grabbing House's shoulder and forcing him to turn. "That's not-"

House jerked his shoulder out of Thomas' grasp. "Do _not._ Touch me," he growled, narrowing his eyes at his former patient and ignoring Cuddy's affronted stare.

"It's fine," Wilson rushed to explain, stepping in between Thomas and House.

"No it isn't," Thomas spat, turning his grey eyes over Wilson's shoulder and at House. "There's no excuse for anti-Semitism-I don't care if it was a joke."

"Oh, please. This coming from a Nazi? Hypocrite."

Thomas made to move past Wilson again, but Wilson put his hands on Thomas' chest and pushed him back slightly. Cuddy grabbed Thomas' arm but glared at House, her blue eyes fierce and jaw set determinedly. "He's right, Wilson. There's no excuse for racial slurs in the workplace," she insisted carefully, the bite of disappointment clipping her words slightly.

Thomas continued glaring at House until his cheek twitched again. He blinked a few times, closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, and then took a step back. "I'm sorry," Thomas mumbled to Wilson's shoes.

"No, he's the one who should apologize," Cuddy insisted, widening her eyes at House and gesturing at Thomas with her chin slightly.

"I'm not apologizing to that hypocritical, swastika-bearing jackass who spouts off worse things over dinner," House retaliated.

"Swastika? House, what are-"

Thomas chuckled briefly, interrupting Cuddy. "That was pretty funny, though," he admitted with another chuckle.

All three of them looked at Thomas strangely, then House pointed at him with his thumb. "See? I knew he'd get a laugh out of it. Most Jew-hating Nazis tend to think anti-Semitism hilarious." He faced Thomas, whose mouth was tightly closed, a small, barely suppressed chuckle puffing out his cheeks briefly. "You think that's really funny, you should check out his initials," he continued, jerking his head at Wilson.

Thomas scoffed back a chuckle, then openly laughed. It seemed once he got started he couldn't stop, because then he was guffawing, right eye twitching. In fact, he laughed so hard he snorted, and then had to suck in a deep breath. Thomas had to lean one hand against the nearest wall, his face bright red and body convulsing with raucous laughter.

House and Cuddy shared a look of confusion. Wilson stood stock still, as if afraid that at any moment Thomas would lunge at him. After a few seconds, though, Wilson ventured a little closer and, with the hand not holding the briefcase, moved forward to touch his shoulder. "Uh, Thomas?" he managed carefully, hand inching closer.

Thomas rolled his head back, still laughing, and his body followed until he smacked the linoleum, chuckles dying immediately in his throat. His body convulsed and his eyes rolled backwards, only the whites visible. His head jerked and thwacked against he linoleum, and Wilson was on his knees a second later, pushing Thomas onto his side and whipping his coat off to stuff it underneath his head, briefcase skittering across the floor.

"Now _that,"_ he stated, pointing at the seizing Nazi before him and grinning at Cuddy, "is interesting."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Differential diagnosis!" House greeted cheerily when Foreman walked through the door. The rest of the ducklings looked at him while he stood near the doorway, raising his chin and eyebrow haughtily at the whiteboard.

"I thought you cured the Nazi." Foreman folded his arms across his chest and his head dropped to one side.

"So did I," he retaliated. "But then he decided to go and get more interesting on me. So, what causes vertigo, dizziness, euphoria, and seizures?"

"What about the vomiting blood?"

"That was caused by an ulcer," Chase explained quickly.

"I still maintain that maybe he actually did find your anti-Semitic remark funny. He is, after all, a neo-Nazi," Taub chipped in, glaring at the white-board as if it had offended him. Considering there was dark swastika scribbled on it, maybe it had.

"He didn't chuckle, Taub. He laughed hysterically moments after jumping to defend your people's honour. Had he found it hilarious, he would've responded immediately. Oh, right, and then he seized. I know euphoric people when I see them. Right, Foreman?"

Thirteen and Taub shared a look of confusion.

"It could be pesticide poisoning. His wife has a garden; they grow their own tomatoes, grapes, some carrots-if she uses pesticides with either Xylene or Tolulene, she could be inadvertently poisoning him," Thirteen suggested, getting a start on the differential.

House shook his head, holding his cane behind his head, holding onto both ends as he leaned his head backwards and paced in front of the white-board. "She'd be poisoning herself, too. Her and the kid would be seizing all over the damn place; puking on my shoes. Besides, if they're using enough pesticides to poison themselves they'd be getting the skin and eye irritation first. It can't be environmental; his family's just fine-well, except for the Nazi thing."

"Lidocaine toxicity-if he's allergic to it . . ." Chase suggested.

"Nope," Taub interjected. "His office is strictly novocaine and pain killers."

"It could be a reaction to the local anaesthetic we used on his throat or what we used during surgery," Chase supplied.

Taub shook his head. "Or it could be another one of the symptoms he lied to us about and he's been having them for months. He would've had a reaction during the surgery or the endoscopy, anyway. Besides, the only way he'd get those symptoms would be if he used them intravenously to get high, and he doesn't have track marks."

"He might not be taking intravenous drugs-ODing and withdrawal from amphetamines could cause his symptoms," Thirteen pitched in, looking over at House for confirmation.

"It would've showed up on the drug test," House shot down as he continued pacing.

"Could be lead poisoning," Chase offered.

House glared at him. "I just told you; if it were an environmental factor, his family would be sick, too."

Chase sighed and pushed onward; eager to get a confirmation. "Impulsivity and irritability are symptoms of lead poisoning. His wife's a piece of work and his son looks like he's been in fights recently and besides, he's lied to us multiple times; maybe his family _is_ sick and they just haven't said anything. We probably don't even know all of his symptoms; he lied about the seizures too."

House narrowed his eyes and thought over what Chase had said. He hadn't checked their blood for lead poisoning; it could work, if their house in both Arizona and New Jersey had lead paint. He shook his head. "He has enough money for the best so he'll get the best. He won't be buying any homes with lead-based paint," he countered.

"He's an architect now, too?" Taub scowled. "People generally don't care about others' well-being; especially if they're Nazis. Maybe his realtor just forgot to tell him the nice, large, multi-story house from 1942 had lead paint all over the walls."

"We were at his house," Thirteen stated while she shook her head. "It's brand new; no way it's covered in lead paint. Unless the orthodontists' office-"

"You really think they'd let that office stay in use if it violated code regulations? Besides, then everyone at his work would be sick," Taub shot down.

Thirteen scoffed and tossed her pen down; she'd been twirling it and tapping it against the table either in irritation or because she couldn't sit still. "This is pointless. He's lied to us about when they presented and half his symptoms; how can we even begin to diagnose him if we can't trust anything he says?" she burst angrily.

House stopped pacing and then ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "Chase had a point. If his family is sick, we could be missing out on something, and we have no idea how many symptoms he's hiding from us. We need to get them all alone and hopefully honest. Thirteen, you take the wife out for some tea; cosy up to her-I don't care how. Find out if they've been experiencing symptoms too. Chase, you talk to the son; see if he's been getting sick recently or if he's noticed anything about his dad. Taub, Foreman-talk to Nazi Guy. He's a pushover pansy and you're an intimidating black guy who might ring up the homies and vandalize his car if he doesn't cooperate and he seems to like Jews. He probably got What's-Her-Name knocked up in dental school," he muttered with a snarl.

They all nodded and stood from their seats, heading towards the hallway, but then House put his cane on the ground and caught Foreman's eye. "Foreman, I need to talk to you for a minute," he said, and Foreman remained behind while they all left, Taub waiting outside in the hallway.

Foreman waited for a second, then he let out a sigh. "What?"

"Seizures and euphoria are neurological symptoms and you didn't open your mouth once during the differential. Do you think I paged you for my health?" Foreman didn't say anything; he just lifted his chin a little. "If your _very high morals_ prevent you from treating the patient, I'd prefer you storming out in anger than sitting on your ass and not contributing. Either do your work or go home."

Foreman breathed in through his nose and pinched his lips together angrily, then lowered his head in a slight nod and turned on his heel, leaving the room to join Taub.

House turned in his spot to stare at the white board, pressing his cane to his mouth. He wished something would click into place, but until he could know for sure he had all the facts he wasn't willing to start theorizing. He tapped the curve of his cane against his bottom lip. What if he wasn't lying anymore? What if those were all the symptoms or what if he'd been going to House's office not to apologize, but to tell him more?

He heard the door open and he looked over his shoulder to see Wilson. At least it wasn't Cuddy; she'd been less than pleased with how he'd been around Thomas, although honestly she might have been insulted at the Jew joke. He turned back to the whiteboard and disguised a step aside as a shift in weight to make room for Wilson, in case he wanted to stare at the board and maybe come up with something.

Wilson, predictably, stood by his side and put his hands in his pockets, looking over the whiteboard as well. The silence stretched around them, but it was comfortable so House didn't bother trying to break it, until Wilson tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth, inhaling to speak.

"If you suggest cancer," House forestalled, "I will whack you with my cane."

"Well, I am an oncologist," Wilson justified with a shrug. "And besides, you whacked me with your cane yesterday. You actually left a bruise."

"Yet you keep coming back for more, you masochist."

Wilson chuckled and shook his head. "Name calling, too. What a fine list of activities we do together." House stared at Wilson's profile, who continued to look at the white board. He rocked on his heels a little, then turned his head to meet House's gaze. His smile was so brief House almost didn't see it, but it was there.

House focused on the board again when his chest seemed to tighten, but not uncomfortably. He stared at the ridiculous equation he'd written on the board-a Swastika plus a Star of David equalled a heart. He stared at the heart, then sighed. "You knew we'd get together eventually, Wilson. You even rooted for it," he muttered.

"Sometimes I'm not gifted with foresight," he replied just as casually.

"Or maybe you're just jealous. Not used to sharing me."

He expected a sarcastic evasion, or at least a denial. Instead Wilson remained silent until House turned his head to look at him. Wilson passively looked over the symptoms and nodded slightly. "Maybe," he admitted. "It never stopped you from being right, though. The jealousy."

"And it never stopped you from dating," he retaliated.

"Maybe I should've."

"So what are you suggesting? I leave Cuddy for you?" he asked, not meaning for it to come out like he'd leave Cuddy and date Wilson but leave her because he'd asked. He didn't elaborate, however.

Wilson scoffed and shook his head. "I'm not suggesting you do anything. I'm just-" He sighed, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I should do some of my hours," he muttered and then turned away, heading towards the door leading into the hallway.

House watched him go. Before he left, Wilson turned back around and cleared his throat. "How'd the meeting with the donor go?"

"How do you think?"

"Well, maybe next time," he hoped half-heartedly.

House shook his head. "There probably won't be a next time, Wilson. I'm not you."

Wilson waited for a few seconds, as if expecting House to say something else or as if he was going to offer another potential diagnosis, but then he just nodded in parting and left House in his office, alone.

* * *

Chase was the first to return. By that time, House was busy trolling the IMDb boards, chuckling to himself as he read dozens of over-the-top whiny responses to his harsh but accurate review of _Twilight._ As the two teams of shippers battled it out and saw fit to tell him that had he one ounce of intelligence or understanding of real love he'd like the books, Chase cleared his throat to announce his presence.

House glanced at him. "That was quick."

"The kid blurted everything out the moment I got him to the vending machines. I think he was waiting for an excuse, to be honest. He can't know for sure when the seizures started, but he knows he's had them since at least December. Kid said he heard a noise in the bathroom and checked and saw his dad thrashing about in his own vomit. Nathaniel-"

"Who?"

"The kid. Son of Nazi Guy. His name's Nathaniel," he explained casually; he was used to House not remembering names. "Anyway, he told me his dad drinks a lot, but he's caught him puking even when he hasn't been for a few days. He said he didn't know if that meant anything. When I asked him if his dad ever got euphoric-you know, started laughing hysterically for no reason or just generally irrationally happy-he said that it happens a lot, but he can't tell the difference between irrational happiness or just a normal good day. He figured that his dad was stoned whenever he started laughing for no reason."

"Marijuana would've showed up on the tox screen. So we have seizures since at least December and vomiting to add to the list. Anything else? The kid experiencing tremors, blurred vision, skin rashes . . . ?"

Chase shrugged. "He said he got a cold sometime in February, but nothing serious. His mum got pneumonia; had it for a few weeks but she went to Princeton General and got better by April. His dad took two days off last week because he was vomiting so much he couldn't leave the bathroom for more than fifteen minutes. He hadn't had anything alcoholic to drink for about a week, except he had a glass of wine the morning he was admitted."

House nodded, thinking of when he'd examined Thomas and Nathaniel had taken his mother out of the room. He thought of when he and Wilson were doing the blood and urine samples; Nathaniel managed to get the wife to leave then, too. He picked up his large ball and pressed it to his mouth, as if kissing it. "The son's been trying to get us alone with the dad since he was admitted. He knows his dad lies to them or, well, at least to the mom. He's not only lying to us about his symptoms, but his wife."

"You can't hide vomiting and seizures from your own wife; she's lying, too."

"He's managed to hide his Barbara Streisand vinyl collection from her; he'd be able to hide seizures."

"No, because he's had them at the dinner table with Sarah watching. His wife knows you've got a black man on your team _and_ a Jew. They've researched everyone you've staffed, House. Nathaniel said his mum isn't going to admit to anything her husband won't. That if he doesn't want Jews and blacks knowing his symptoms then she thinks it isn't your business. Maybe he knows his dad isn't really a Nazi. Maybe the kid isn't, either. Could be just the mum."

House shook his head and tapped the ball against his mouth a few times in thought. "He's a Nazi. He has Rockwell tattooed on his knuckles." Off Chase's confused expression, he sighed and continued. "George Lincoln Rockwell is practically the messiah for neo-Nazis." He pursed his lips and felt his ball move across his mouth; soothing his mind and focusing his attention. "Anything else?"

Chase shrugged. "Nope. New symptom, though. Vomiting. Not a total waste."

House exited out of IMDb and stood out of his chair, grabbing his cane and limping into the differential room. Chase followed then went to his usual chair, and House uncapped the marker. It squeaked against the board as he wrote the new symptom.

He hooked his cane on the white board and then tapped the now-capped marker to his mouth, eyeing the symptoms. Puzzle pieces clicked somewhere in the back of his brain and his face fell slightly at the half-formed thought.

The door swished open and House turned to see Taub and Foreman walk in. Foreman went over to his chair as did Taub. House waited for a few seconds, then snapped; "Well?"

"He got his scar when he sixteen, apparently. Baseball bat to the head," Foreman explained sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. "He never had any professional medical advice; his mother stitched it for him."

"Apparently, he wasn't aware of the fact he was having seizures or that unexplainable good moods were anything worth mentioning," Taub added with an eye-roll and sarcasm dripping off every syllable.

The door opened again and Thirteen walked in. Everybody stared at her expectantly. She just sat next to Chase with a sigh. "Sarah says she hasn't been sick and that she was unaware of any seizures and that she doubted being in a good mood occasionally was cause for concern. She had to leave for work, but I seriously doubt she was keen on talking with me for much longer, anyway."

"Right, because laughing uproariously seconds after wanting to tear my head off is totally normal," he muttered, then furrowed his brows in thought as he stared at the equation he'd written on the board. He tilted his head, then uncapped the marker again and wrote 'head trauma-sixteen' slowly. "Foreman, you said he never got professional help?" He turned to look at Foreman.

Foreman nodded. "That's what he said."

House narrowed his eyes in thought, still pressing the marker to his mouth. "Maybe none of this is as new as any of them thought. He experiences headaches-you said he liked pain-killers-and dizziness, light-headedness . . . Who doesn't get light-headed every once in awhile? And if he drinks, he could just blame that on the alcohol until one day he realizes he hasn't had a drink in weeks and he still gets so nauseous he pukes; headache, vertigo . . . He took gingko biloba."

"I've taken ginkgo biloba and I'm not experiencing seizures or even dizziness," Thirteen supplied.

"Some people have adverse reactions to it. So his mom stitches him up and grabs some herbal wannabe medication from over the counter; he takes it for his head injury, but all it does is cause even more vertigo and nausea."

Foreman dropped his chin to his chest, then rolled his eyes so hard his head moved with it. "Are you telling me you actually think he's been taking ginkgo biloba since he was sixteen? He would've eventually stopped."

"Not if the symptoms never went away. Ginkgo biloba dilates the blood vessels in the brain; it's used to treat head injury and vertigo. So if he had an adverse reaction to it then he'd experience the symptoms it's supposed to get rid of, so he keeps taking it."

"Doesn't explain the euphoria," Foreman argued.

"It does if he gets drunk a lot," House countered. "Mixing herbal agents, pain killers, and alcohol-wow, this guy knows how to party."

"Chase and I went through his house. He didn't have any ginkgo biloba there-we searched the whole place."

With a hum, he jerked his cane from off the white board and started limping his way to the exit.

"Where are you going?" Foreman asked with a side of demanded.

He looked over his shoulder. "I'm going to find Nazi Guy's secret stash. He's been taking them for years; he'll have them on his person. I always kept Vicodin on me."

Either House left the differential diagnosis room too quickly for them to respond or he made a valid point, because he didn't hear a single word as the door shut behind him. He breezed past Wilson's office and then limped towards the elevator, past the spot of Nazi Guy's seizure, and froze in front of the elevator. Something in the back of his mind whirred again; the same something that had clicked a few moments ago that filled him with foreboding and unease. The symptoms flashed across his mind in rapid succession and he pounded the call button, watching the doors slide open and cut his warped reflection in half.

He slid into the empty elevator and pushed the button to the floor his patient was on and waited. It was empty in the elevator and House looked over at where he and Wilson had fought over the papers the day before, laughing inches from each other's faces. He thought of Wilson fixing his tie and looking at him through lowered lashes, almost in a flirtatious way.

It wasn't the first time Wilson had given him a look that made House wonder-and it certainly hadn't rivalled the one he'd given him the night of the organ-but he'd never given him that look while they stood so close before. Maybe he had. House had learned to ignore those looks ages ago; it was just Wilson, accidentally flirting. He was a flirtatious guy-House honestly believed he couldn't shut it off. He'd seen the man flirt with women far below his standard and not nearly needy enough for him to ignore their attractiveness. So the pathological flirting made sense.

It was either that, or Wilson wanted . . .

House wasn't going to go down that road. He was dating Cuddy, and Wilson was dating Sam.

Dinging to announce his arrival, the doors slid open and House limped out, brushing past a nurse in lavender scrubs and heading towards his patient's room.

When he burst in, he found Nathaniel sitting in the visitor's chair, stretching his arms above his head until his back and shoulders popped. His eyes caught House and he stood up with a smile. "Well, I'm gonna go take a piss and probably stop by the vending machines. Want anything?" he asked.

"No thanks," his patient said, smiling genially at his son.

Nathaniel walked by House so that his back faced his father, and met House's eyes, widening them slightly as if trying to tell him something and House nodded. He was leaving to give them some privacy.

When the door shut, House immediately went over to the chair where he'd folded his clothes. He jerked the pants free and started sifting through the pockets, tossing his wallet back to the chair as well has his car keys.

"What are you doing?" Thomas asked.

"Searching for your stash." When he came up clean, his eyes spotted his wife's large, white purse. "You had massive head trauma when you were sixteen, but didn't go to the hospital. I assume your mother, in all her infinite Old Wives' Tale wisdom, bought some ginkgo biloba and stuffed it down you."

"Well, yes," he admitted a bit confusedly.

House stepped forward and grabbed the purse, opening it with no pretence of being gentle.

"That's my wife's purse you're-"

"Women carry their purses everywhere. Your wife left hers here, which means there's something in here you need, like your secret stash of-" He pulled out the first bottle his fingers curled around and pulled it out with a flourish. ". . . Midol."

"She's a massage therapist; all she needs is her phone and car keys. She doesn't trust her clients or employees. I'm sorry; could you not-"

"Trust me; it's medically relevant. I'm looking for your ginkgo biloba. I'll find it eventually."

"I stopped taking that when I was seventeen," he said, staring at House as if he'd said something incredibly odd.

"Sure," he muttered in disbelief.

"You don't believe me."

"Why should I? You lie to your family, you've lied about almost all of your symptoms . . ."

"Why would I worry about having a good day or laughing often? And I wasn't aware I was having seizures. I thought I was blacking out; I drink occasionally. If you thought I was just blacking out from alcohol, then you'd dismiss my other-" House opened the purse wider and dumped it onto the slender bedside table. "Hey! Now, I asked you stop, so could you-"

House sifted through the objects that had landed haphazardly on the desk. A few tampons rolled onto the floor; a yo-yo thunked the tabletop and then slid across, landing on the floor. Loose change tinkled across the faux-wood and rolled to the linoleum, some of it landing on the cover of _Mein Kampf,_ to which House raised his eyebrow, and a bottle of Ibuprofen spun lazily but did not fall to the floor. A bottle of ginseng knocked into the Ibuprofen and then rolled back into a Tootsie Pop. A few crumpled receipts, her bottle of Midol, and a few pens completed the picture, and her wallet had fallen open, revealing a small family picture.

House looked inside the empty purse, then back at Thomas, who was just staring at him with his head reeled back and pale brows furrowed. After a long second, he cleared his throat. "Like I said, I stopped taking it when I was teenager. My headaches and dizziness stopped so I didn't see the point in continuing to take them."

House sat the purse beside the mess he'd made, then eyed the jagged scar across the left side of his head. It wasn't thick or angry looking-just one long crooked line. Thomas self-consciously scratched at it and shifted awkwardly on the bed.

He cleared his throat. "I was just watching her purse," Thomas explained politely.

House narrowed his eyes in thought. "What happened?" he asked, gesturing vaguely at the scar.

Thomas sighed. "I was taking Honours Biology. We had a term-long project and we didn't get to pick our partners. My teacher paired me up with Justine Seyfield; a black girl. At the time I . . . still had some prejudices I hadn't worked through, but I figured my education was more important than . . . who I studied with. I knew my parents and brother wouldn't see it that way, and Dad was sick so I just . . . didn't tell them. Told them I was at the library; hanging out with some friends . . . Anything so they wouldn't come looking for me.

"Started . . . going over to her place to work on our project. I realized that-well. She wasn't so different than me. Started spending more time than it took to study, and one night I stayed past dinner. My parents got worried so they sent my brother looking for me; he called all my teachers to see if I'd said anything and . . . Well, he came to her house and found me. So he dragged me home, made a huge scene, and one thing led to another and he beat my ass." He shrugged as if it didn't really matter, but obviously recounting the story affected him; his eyes were watering.

"With a baseball bat?" House urged, remembering Foreman saying something about one.

Thomas nodded slowly and swallowed audibly. "I know you think I'm weak. A . . . hypocrite. But my mom stitched me up with no anaesthetic and still blames me for my dad dying a week later. As for Justine, well . . . They found her body in a river three weeks later. It's my fault she's dead-if I hadn't forgotten to call-" His voice broke with emotion and he sniffed. He stared at his lap and let a long sigh, House's stomach clenching at the story. "You can say what you want about me and you'd probably be right. But it's not as easy as you think, getting away from all of this. I've tried, but . . . Well." He snorted and brushed away the wetness underneath his lids.

For a moment House stared at Thomas as he bowed his head, focusing on his lap. He eyed the scar; eyed the other small scars dotting his head; at the bumps and grooves the skull made, skin stretched across it. He imagined seeing a murdered black girl being dragged out of a lake on the news and knowing it could have been prevented with one phone call he hadn't made . . .

"I asked you what happened to your head; I don't want your life story," he spat, then turned on his heel and left the room.

* * *

Nathaniel stared at his reflection in the mirror, tilting his head one way and then the other. He pulled his lips over his teeth and then pulled his bottom lip down to see the scabs that matched the shape of his teeth. He touched his nose and then ran his finger over the bump-apparently, he hadn't reset it properly. He looked at his hand, turning it in the light; his knuckles were still scabbed and a little swollen. When he flexed his fingers his hand ached.

He jumped when the door burst open loudly and he looked over his shoulder to see the entrant. It was House. "Hey," he greeted with a head nod then turned back to the mirror. House stopped a few feet behind him a little to the left and they met eyes through the reflection.

House went over to the urinals and started urinating, so Nathaniel went back to flexing his hand and wincing when it ached.

After House finished Nathaniel heard him flush. House went to the sink beside him and Nathaniel winced when he moved his wrist in a way that shot pain to his fingertips.

House dried his hands, but instead of leaving the bathroom he came up right behind Nathaniel, the two looking at each other through the reflection. Nathaniel turned around so he could glare at him face to face. "Gimme your hand," House ordered, his shirt un-tucked so he looked less professional than he had when he walked in.

Nathaniel stepped away so his back hit the sink. "What the hell for?"

"I'm a palm reader," he answered patronizingly.

They locked eyes challengingly, but after a few seconds Nathaniel scoffed and thrust his hand in House's face. House took it and held it in both hands, then bent it. Trying to pull his hand away and hissing in pain did nothing to change his mind; tiny cracking noises filled the bathroom and after one large crack, the aching went away.

House released his hand and Nathaniel flexed and twisted it. Everything felt perfectly fine, except for a slight sting where House had broken a scab by grabbing his hand.

"Thanks, dude," he said, then moved to walk by him.

House stepped in front of him. "Every single time I've been in the same room as your dad, you leave. You even get Mommy Dearest to go with you. I'd put money betting on the fact you left whenever my team walked in, too. Ten seconds alone with Chase, and you blurt out all the symptoms. You knew your dad wouldn't tell us all the symptoms when you left, so either you thought maybe he would tell us but you told us anyway because your personal motto is better safe than sorry . . ." He stared pointedly at his recently broken nose in disbelief. ". . . or there was something else you were hoping he'd tell us without your mother or you in the room."

Nathaniel found House's gaze a bit too penetrating so he looked at his feet and scratched the back of his head, his shaggy blonde hair dancing in front of his eyes. "Yeah, there's somethin' else," he admitted. He looked up to see House staring expectantly at him. He held his breath for a second, then he swallowed nervously. "My . . . my dad's cheating on my mom," he mumbled quietly.

"You catch him with his pants down?"

"Well, no, I haven't caught him, I just . . . I was lookin' through his room and I found some condoms."

"Right, sexually active adults having condoms is entirely-"

"My mom can't get pregnant," he interrupted and House shut his mouth. "She had two miscarriages before me. I almost killed her and I was premature so she got her tubes tied."

House nodded once. "Hmm. Interesting." He nodded to himself, eyes ticking back and forth like he was reading something in midair. He limped towards the door quickly, but stopped before he left. He turned around and looked Nathaniel over. "Word to the wise-if he was hiding them in his room, your mother would've found them. Next time, just tell me you were looking through his wallet for cash."

With that, House left the bathroom.

* * *

With a flourish House burst into the differential diagnosis room. "Test him for neurosyphilis; he cheats on his wife," he greeted, holding his thigh and rubbing it; the quick limping had taken its toll on his thigh.

"You can't know-" Chase began.

"Oh come on, you can't seriously be that naïve," he interrupted. Chase sighed and then sat back in his chair and sighed. "His kid found condoms in his wallet and Mommy's got her tubes tied. If anybody's surprised he's cheating on his harridan Nazi of a wife, then now would probably be a bad time to tell you that Spock dies in _Wrath of Kahn."_

"So he cheats on his wife; he also has condoms. Just because he sleeps around doesn't automatically mean he has neurosyphilis," Foreman countered, staring at House as if he were a total moron.

"The fact he had syphilis and ignored the symptoms for well over-"

"The symptoms don't fit!"

"Right, because neurosyphilis _doesn't_ affect the brain," House said sarcastically. "Oh, wait . . ." Foreman rolled his eyes. "Stuff him full of penicillin and take a blood test to confirm."

"If he had syphilis his wife would have contracted it too and I _know_ she would've noticed him wearing a condom," Foreman pointed out rationally.

House opened his mouth to point out some fallacy in his reasoning, but realized Foreman made sense. His wife had her tubes tied and there was no reason for them to be wearing condoms; if he was putting them in his wallet, that meant he planned on having sex in places other than their bedroom so he definitely was hiding them. House should've made that connection himself. He only didn't make obvious connections when he was high or because he was subconsciously ignoring them; why would he ignore that?

"Symptoms point to autoimmune-most likely lupus or sarcoidosis affecting the brain. Taking Ibuprofen medication with an autoimmune disease can make you more susceptible to ulcers," Thirteen suggested.

"Sarcoidosis gradually cures itself. He would've been getting better, not worse," House shot down with a shake of his head.

"It could be a meningioma or brain cancer," Taub stated.

The final puzzle piece clicked; it wasn't an epiphany so much as him figuring out what his mind had been trying to avoid. The whirring sensation in the back of his brain; the unexplained sense of foreboding that filled his chest. The reason why he hadn't made the connection between the condoms-he hadn't wanted to go down this road in case it ended up on brain cancer.

House shook his head. "Autoimmune fits better. Multiple sclerosis. He said he stopped taking ginkgo biloba when he seventeen because his headaches stopped. MS disappears for periods of time and returns; mimics other diseases. It probably came back during 'medical school,'" he added air-quotes as he rolled his eyes, "and he wrote it off as stress. It's autoimmune so it makes him more susceptible to ulcers from the Ibuprofen."

"If he had MS he'd be twitching all over the place or at least unable to walk properly; it would've affected his muscles or spinal cord by now. You just don't want him to have brain cancer because then your best friend would have his Nazi family breathing down his neck," Taub stated. "Most meningiomas are benign so chances are he won't have to be on Wilson's caseload for very long; it explains his headaches we know he has from all the Ibuprofen he takes, his dullness, even his personality changes."

"What personality changes?" Chase asked, hopefully taking House's side.

Taub's 'duh' expression was directed at Chase, but then he turned to face House as he spoke. "He fell in love with a Jew in college but married a Nazi. Maybe we're looking at his doomed romance all wrong. Maybe it's not love; maybe it's a personality change."

House scoffed. "No, the seeds of acceptance were buried when he was sixteen. He was paired with some black girl in his class and she's the one who opened his eyes to not being a judgmental racist piece of garbage."

"So he says," Foreman snorted as he folded his arms across his chest. "We all know he lies, House. You've caught him in several. He only talked about some Jewish girl in medical school when Taub walked in; he only told you about the black girl after Taub and I tried to get more information out of him."

Taub nodded in Foreman's direction to concede with his point. "His dad _did_ die of cancer. The chances of getting cancer are greater if someone in your family-"

"It's not cancer!" House shouted suddenly, slamming the tip of his cane against the floor. The room filled with silence and his team all shared knowing looks. "Now get down there and pump him full of corticosteriods; he's got MS."

"I'm not treating a patient for MS if I don't think he has it," Foreman refused, shaking his head slightly and looking House up and down in incredulity.

House turned away from his team and stared at the white board, scratching at his eyebrow and pursing his lips together. "Him having MS is just as likely as him having cancer. If you don't want to give him treatment, fine; do a CBC to check for lupus and an ESR to check the inflammation. Do an LP to confirm MS and then when you come back with one of those autoimmune diseases, you can treat him then," he ordered, voice bouncing off of the white board and hitting him back in the face. He looked past the symptoms and focused on his barely-there reflection.

"The fact that you're asking us to test before you treat means you're unsure, which means you know I'm right," Foreman stated.

"Just do the damn tests!" House yelled, spinning to glare at his team.

They all stared at him in return, then after a few seconds of them sharing glances and pursing their lips in annoyance, they slowly stood from their chairs. "You're just wasting our time," Foreman snapped.

"Taub can do the LP," House said on their way out. When Taub looked at him, face blank but with an air of confusion surrounding him, House tried to smirk but his mind was elsewhere. "Poking him with something sharp is the only reason you didn't storm off," he reminded, then turned back to the symptoms, listening to the door close as his knee buckled under the pain that seared through his thigh.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Chase and Thirteen had gone in first to do the CBC and ESR and to also excuse Nathaniel so he wouldn't be present when Taub and Foreman entered. With Sarah Mueller at work they only had to deal with the son, and since he willingly left whenever any of them walked in Taub assumed it hadn't taken much for them to get him to leave. Either way, it didn't matter because Taub was only there to do a lumbar puncture.

Joking about poking Thomas aside, the fact he thought he was wasting his time with an LP was enough to dampen his mood, but it was life when working with House. It wasn't the first time House had wasted his time and it probably wouldn't be the last; at least he wasn't mopping the floor. To be honest, he didn't blame House for not wanting the patient to have brain cancer, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. Nobody, not even House, could make a diagnosis disappear with just wanting it enough.

"I'm going to need you to lie on your side with your knees to your chest," he told him.

Thomas didn't immediately do as he was told. "You think I have lupus?" he asked cautiously.

"We think you might have autoimmune," he said after a slight hesitation and a brief smile he was sure didn't reach his eyes. "House thinks it's most likely multiple sclerosis, but we need to rule out lupus and sarcoidosis first."

Thomas stared at his face for a second then narrowed his eyes as if he didn't believe what Taub said.

Taub kept his face impassive. "Are you allergic to lidocaine? We have cause to believe you might be."

Thomas shook his head. "I'm not allergic to anything."

"We'll be using local anaesthetic on your skin; there will still be some discomfort, and some people experience headaches afterwards. I'll need you lie on your side and put your knees to your chest, please," he repeated.

Thomas shifted awkwardly and then did as he was told, lying with his back facing Taub. He rested his head on the pillow as Taub pressed his fingers to his spine, trying to find the precise location he wanted. "You don't believe me, do you?" Thomas muttered.

Taub pushed against the lumbar and nodded, then marked it with his fingernail. "Why would you think that?"

"House didn't believe me about the ginkgo biloba. Why would any of you believe me about anything?"

Taub grabbed his latex gloves and slid them on, snapping them against his wrists. "House . . . doesn't believe anybody; he relies on evidence, not word. This woman you loved in dental school-"

"Medical school," Thomas corrected.

Taub almost rolled his eyes. "Right. This woman you loved affected how you behave; it's the only constant you have. The only thing about you that he actually believes. You'll feel a little sting," he warned, then pushed the needle into his skin to numb it.

"He believes me but you don't?"

Taub sighed. "I don't doubt that you had feelings for her; maybe even loved her. I just don't think you loved her enough. Not enough to garner any sympathies."

"I loved her," he insisted.

"Of course you did. You just loved your image a little more."

Thomas scoffed. "I hate everything about me. My image, my life . . ."

"So you hate your life and image, but you put it before her." He grabbed the LP needle and put it into his skin. Thomas hissed in a breath and Taub stopped when he felt the pop he'd been pushing to find.

"I was scared," Thomas admitted. "You have no idea what it's like."

"I have no idea what it's like to put my own wants before the one I love's needs?" he said sarcastically and with perhaps a tinge of shame. "I understand more about that than you think. I'm not saying you didn't love her; I'm just saying that . . . I'm not going to pat you on the back for your troubles. I have no idea what growing up in a white supremacist household is like and I won't claim to understand. But I'm not going to concern myself with your problems when they're self-inflicted. I don't expect anybody to justify my actions for me because I was too afraid to let go of my youth and you can't expect anybody here to feel sorry for you when you chose this."

Taub began collecting the fluid and Thomas hissed again. "I'm not expecting anything. I just . . . Have you ever looked back on your life and regretted everything you ever did? Because I honestly can't think of a single thing I'm proud of, expect . . . Well. Except for her."

"Have I gone through a midlife crisis, you mean?" Taub invalidated with a patronizing tone.

Thomas remained silent as Taub finished collecting the spinal fluid. He figured he was off thinking about long-lost lovers and imagining life with an imaginary wife, celebrating Hanukkah and renouncing his previous beliefs, but Taub really didn't care. He had his own marital problems and past regrets to deal with; he didn't need some Nazi he'd never see after they managed to diagnose him trying to pull on his heart strings.

* * *

House was in clinic duty, dutifully avoiding the duty part of that phrase, lying down on the examination table with his ankles crossed and his PSP blocking the light as he held it. Contrary to popular belief, always held by those of non-medical professions, receiving an answer from a test was not instantaneous. Which, actually, House had banked on when he demanded his team go out and do them.

Word made it back to Cuddy that he was busy testing and she'd taken it upon herself to remind him of his clinic hours, and so with very little resistance he'd done two allergies, a laryngitis case, a woman wanting birth control, and an STD, then set up shop in exam room two and began to play his video game. It was two o' clock and his stomach rumbled unsurprisingly; it was well past his lunchtime. However, he'd forgotten his wallet in his other pants (seriously, he'd left them in his jeans) and Wilson hadn't been in his office when he'd knocked. Apparently he'd been in clinic duty but by the time he'd finished with his first clinic patient Wilson had mysteriously signed out of clinic to apparently do his rounds.

House figured he was just avoiding him because of his little slip with finally admitting he didn't want House dating Cuddy. Being an enabler most of the time, he probably felt guilty for not wanting House to be romantically involved; possibly ashamed for the guilt, as well, but honestly House wasn't surprised. It was normal for a best friend to become jealous when he no longer had his friend entirely to himself, and since Wilson had probably become accustomed to House just always being only with him ever since Stacy left, it was a bit of a change. House understood jealousy personally just as he understood thinking his best friend was in a relationship doomed to make him miserable and eventually fail. He was not annoyed or angry with Wilson's opinion at all, but he could see how Wilson might think he was and how he would agonize over not being the perfect enabling little cheerleader he'd probably envisioned himself to be before House and Cuddy finally did start dating.

Maybe he should've been upset. House frowned at the notion. Wilson always got defensive and at least annoyed at the suggestion his girlfriend sucked which was entirely understandable. What wasn't understandable was House's complete acceptance of Wilson's dislike and his indifference to the notion that he and Cuddy might not actually be good for each other.

The door opened and it could only be one of two people who would dare interrupt his diagnosing of-he glanced down at the folder he kept beside him-Kendra Wrathal, and he tapped the X button as many times as he could.

"House," Cuddy began, a weary tinge to her tone, "what are you doing?"

"Treating Kendra Wrathal," he answered, holding down the X button as he lifted the folder with his free hand.

Cuddy jerked it out of his hand and flipped it open with a sigh. He didn't remove his eyes from the screen as his fingers blurred over the buttons in a flurry of ass-kicking combos. "Kendra Wrathal is a patient you treated in 2003." House ignored her and she sighed. "You didn't get the donation," she managed, then sat on the examination table beside his hip.

"Hmm, I'm unsurprised," he admitted, then scooted over the tiniest bit to make more room for her.

"He said you were too arrogant. That nobody is as good as you think you are." He hummed again, then performed a fatality of such awesome proportions he had to chuckle darkly. Cuddy grabbed his wrist and pulled it down so that instead of staring at his PSP he was staring at her. "We need to talk," she insisted.

"Funny, I'm never particularly interested in anything anyone says after stating 'we need to talk,'" he muttered, then slid off of the examination table, turning off his PSP and stuffing it in his backpack.

"You need to start watching what you say," he said with a healthy dose of weariness and her eyebrows tilted upward. "I know Wilson wasn't offended by your comment this morning. And-well, I've known you long enough to know you aren't . . . prejudiced," she settled carefully as she walked in front of him, preventing him from making a run for it, but the fact she'd been slightly hesitant in her wording meant that although she knew he wasn't prejudiced, she was still offended.

"But I hurt the feelings of poor, defenceless Timmy. God forbid I make a Nazi cry."

"His name is Thomas. And why do you keep calling him a Nazi? That's just uncalled for."

"I keep calling him that because he _is_ one. Has a Swastika on his chest and everything."

Cuddy blinked at him in surprise and her mouth worked as if at a loss for words, and then she let out a sigh. "Still, were someone else to hear that . . . The donor won't donate because of the way you spoke to him; you need to be more professional. You lost the money, you . . . you offended your patient with _anti-Semitism._ That's harassment, House."

"Has he filed a complaint?" he asked.

"Well, no, he hasn't, but-"

"Then it's not harassment," he interrupted, then moved to walk past her.

"House-" she began, grabbing onto his arm.

"What?" he demanded, facing her. "You want me to watch my words? Say please and thank you? It's funny-you didn't seem all that upset this morning when I told you I pissed off the nanny; you didn't have a problem with my _harassment_ then. It's only okay when it serves _your_ purpose, right? Never seemed to bother you before; what, now that you're on your knees sucking me off at the end of the day I have to watch my mouth?"

"House!" she snapped, getting into his face. "That was uncalled for!"

"What's uncalled for is you suddenly having issues with the way I do my job. Calling my team, telling me to watch my mouth-I didn't listen to you before, what makes you think I'm going to be a ray of sunshine now? I'm not going to play nice with everyone now just because you and I are dating-if you seriously thought that would happen, you were wrong."

"I don't expect you to change, House. You'll always be honest and . . . acerbic, but you cannot be that way at work. It's unprofessional, it hurts the hospital's reputation, and-"

"None of that is new. The only thing new about any of this is our relationship. You don't care about the hospital any more than you did before-you just care about how this reflects on your choice of partner." Uninterested in whatever her rebuttal would be, he left the clinic room.

* * *

Foreman was _not_ pleased. This wasn't the first time House had completely wasted his time and he wasn't naïve enough to think it would be the last, but that didn't mean he thought it was okay. House didn't even have any real reason to believe it was more likely MS over a meningioma. The headaches, depression, personality change-it all fit; moreso than the possibility of recurring symptoms that had not been proven. Meningiomas were benign most of the time anyway, and even if it was some sort of brain cancer wasting his time with a physical exam, bloods tests, an MRI, and an EEG wouldn't make the cancer disappear; either the patient would be terminal, or he wouldn't. In either case, he would be put on Wilson's caseload, or his family could take him to some other oncologist if they had problems with the fact he was Jewish, and anyway, Wilson had a Christian name and wasn't all that religious. Or if he was religious, Foreman had never really noticed-he only knew Wilson was Jewish because House had made enough jokes and told them all when Cameron had had the audacity to gasp in shock.

Thomas had attempted a conversation with him, but Foreman had quickly ended any attempts and kept everything medically related. He was there as his doctor, not as his confidante-even if he didn't believe in Nazism, he still lived that life and Foreman had nothing to say to a man who, by day, went to rallies and talked about how the Black Man and the Jew brought the White Man down, whether or not he believed it.

Foreman had dealt with enough prejudice in his life. People thought racism was dead, but he knew better. He'd had to work twice as hard to get half the acknowledgement his peers did when he was in school; all anybody ever saw him as was some poor black kid from the projects trying to make something of himself. He was a living stereotype they all thought would fail, just like in all the "gangsta movies" they watched at home and somehow imbued them with the false belief that they actually knew something about his life and where he was going. He'd seen the way others treated his father at work, and how all the white, suburban housewives had looked at his mother when she'd been alive. He knew why his professor had thought he'd cheated on one of his tests during a rotation one year, and it wasn't because Foreman had correctly answered a question the teacher hadn't covered, either.

He might not have had to deal with it as blatantly as his parents had, but he'd dealt with it. He'd been called a racial slur or two in his day, and he'd had to collect his emotions and let it slide because had he reacted then he would've been just another "primal black man" living up to the angry stereotype that they'd thought, and he was not going to stoop down to their level.

So it didn't matter what Thomas Mueller really believed because as far as anybody was concerned, the lie he perpetuated about himself was what he'd rather people think about him, and Foreman found that just as despicable as if he'd actually thought the crap he proclaimed at lunch, or dinner, or at any of the racist rallies he went to.

He'd been sent off to do the tests before lunch, and it was almost four o' clock now. He was sure Chase, Thirteen, and Taub had all returned with their results already, but House would inevitably wait until the last moment. Foreman would've found his reluctance to hand Thomas over to Wilson touching except that Foreman didn't actually care one way or another about House's friendship, except that when Wilson was around House was a bit easier to deal with, and since his attachment to Wilson was what prompted House to waste his time, at the moment he didn't even care about that.

He walked into House's office to see his boss sitting in his chair, staring out of his balcony door with his oversized tennis ball to his lips, brows furrowed his thought. There was a Tupperware container on his desk with Post-It notes littering the area beside it, Wilson's spiky, all-capitals scrawl familiar against the yellow paper. His shirt was still untucked and his slowly-growing hair was mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it. His tie, although nice, was a little crooked and rumpled-apparently he'd been absently playing with it. House was a very tactile thinker-couldn't keep his hands still.

Without preamble, he walked over to the switchboard and turned on the light, sticking the MRI photographs in it, the name Mueller, Thomas Jeremiah visible so House couldn't try and suggest he'd mixed scans-not that he worried about that, but with House, one could never know. "I did the blood tests and the physical exam. He does not have MS, which I'm sure you realized when Taub came back with the results from the LP. The MRI doesn't show any signs of MS, but I did find some shadows that could be menigioma." He stepped away from the scans so that House could see them.

He glanced over at House who placed his ball on the desk and grabbed his cane, pushing out of his chair. "It's on the left side of his head, moron. It's his scar tissue."

"Maybe. Or it could be scar tissue hiding a tumour, or it could even be the tumour itself. We don't know how bad the injury was-it could've just broken the skin. He never sought professional help, and I've checked his medical history. He's never had any MRIs done on his head-we'd never know. We should biopsy his brain and put him on Wilson's-"

"It could be epilepsy. The other symptoms could be the result of too much drinking."

"I thought you might say that when autoimmune came back negative, so I ran an EEG and did some blood work; he does _not_ have epilepsy. House, face it-he has cancer. Either his family is going to have to deal with his oncologist being Jewish-if they even _know_ he is-or take him somewhere else."

Foreman stared expectantly at House, who was tapping the curve of his cane against his mouth. "It could be scar tissue," House murmured again, jerking his chin at the MRI scan.

"Right, and the symptoms only started presenting themselves now, decades after the head injury. His son would've mentioned it if he'd been dealing with all these his entire life." House still didn't say anything-he kept tapping his cane against his mouth and searching the scans for some clue that didn't exist.

Foreman sighed and rolled his eyes in annoyance. "When are you going to accept the fact it might be cancer? When he's dead and the autopsy reveals it? Either deal with the facts presented or I'll go to Cuddy to make sure our patient gets the treatment he's paying for."

House whipped the scans off the switchboard with an angry look at Foreman and limped out of his office.

* * *

House wasn't a moron, and he knew there was nothing else he could do, short of praying to a nonexistent God that his patient _didn't_ have cancer. Praying had done squat for Hannah in the leg and life department, so he wasn't going to waste his time with it. Taub had come to him with the negative LP results; Chase and Thirteen held all the blood tests in their hands. Normal sodium levels, normal inflammation levels-obviously not autoimmune. What had he done? Waited for Foreman. He knew it wasn't autoimmune, and he'd still held out anyway.

He walked into Wilson's office, and Wilson watched him curiously as he stalked over to his board, stuffed the scan there, and switched on the light, stepping back to eye it carefully. "Is it cancer?"

He listened to the ruffle of Wilson setting aside his paperwork and standing. He waited until Wilson was standing right by him to look at his expression; his eyes were narrowed and his brows furrowed slightly and he brought in his bottom lip. He reached forward and gestured at the pretty obvious shadows on the left side of his brain. "I assume this is your patient's MRI?"

"Tested him for autoimmune first. I thought it might've been MS."

Wilson scoffed. "No you didn't. You just didn't want it to be cancer and exhausted every other possible choice."

House snorted. "MS was just as likely. This could be scar tissue, anyway. It's on the same side of his head injury."

"I'd have to do a PET scan to be sure, but it's . . ." He let out a small sigh and turned his head to glance at House, and the expression on his face now was familiar-the same face he gave a patient before telling him he was going to die. "Most meningiomas are benign, House. A surgery to remove it, some radiotherapy . . ." He shrugged.

"If it's _not_ benign-if it's meninges cancer, or some other type of brain cancer and you have to tell him he's dying . . ."

"I'll collect the ten dollars you owe me and put him on my caseload." House scoffed and almost said that he was getting ahead of himself with the ten dollars, but instead he just looked into his face, and he must've looked worried because Wilson reached forward and squeezed his shoulder. "He's not going to hurt me, House. It's fine."

"It's not him I worry about," he grumbled awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Wilson's face so he wouldn't be able to see just how much he really was worried about it.

Wilson's thumb rubbed a gentle circle through House's button-up shirt; he was still holding onto his shoulder. House looked away from the spot on the wall he'd found irrationally fascinating for the moment and met Wilson's eyes for the millionth time, and felt it in his chest.

He thought about kissing him, not for the first time. He would be lying if he said he hadn't ever thought about it because he had; enough times for it to be more than just some passing, idle thought brought on by alcohol and too much alone time with Wilson and no one else, like he'd blamed it on for the first dozen times he's caught himself not just thinking but obsessing over thoughts of his friend's mouth on his. But he'd given hints, and clues, and waited for Wilson to come to his senses and he never had, so he'd tossed that fantasy out of the window for something he could actually obtain with Cuddy.

Except, well, the life he'd thought of that morning while he scribbled that horribly domestic note on the Post-It with her lipstick-that wasn't him. Barbecues and aprons and maturely discussing issues while Rachel played around in the back lawn and he slowly changed into some genial old man with a limp and a kid who wasn't his . . . That wasn't him. Him and Cuddy could work, sure; under the pretence that he stopped dressing unprofessionally at work and stopped being rude around patients; started being a little more politically correct and going golfing with nephews of donors . . .

He shook that thought out of his head; it was in his nature to automatically assume the worst case scenario. He wondered if his worst case scenario was her best case scenario, and swallowed the lump in his throat that formed when he realized Wilson was just a tad closer than he had been and still rubbing House's shoulder soothingly.

His hand slid down his arm and House could have convinced himself he imagined Wilson squeezing his hand briefly before he turned towards the switchboard and turned off the light, grabbing the scans. "I should probably go tell him he might have cancer," he aired to no one in particular, because it wasn't as if this was news to House.

If House thought about it, maybe Wilson had been flirting with him this morning with the tie or who knew how many other times throughout their friendship. It was with that thought in mind that when Wilson turned to walk out of his office, House grabbed his shoulder and forced him to face him. "Wilson-" he began, then cut himself off when he saw Wilson's enlarged pupils and heard the quick intake of breath. He was either afraid, or . . .

Wilson visibly and almost audibly swallowed. "What?" he breathed, and the fact he hadn't knocked House's hand away had to have meant something.

_Don't go? Kiss me? Let me shove you against your desk and ravish you while I am still currently dating my girlfriend who just happens to our boss?_

Commitment jitters. Fear of losing Wilson. That was all it had to be-that was all Nolan would say, most likely.

He was dating Cuddy and he was happy. It almost sounded like a mantra.

He removed his hand and cleared his throat. "I'm coming with you," he stated and limped past his friend before he could change his mind.

* * *

When it came to being sensitive and empathetic, House knew he lacked talent in those departments and sat back and watched the master at work. Wilson had told him he didn't need to come and that he was sure the patient wouldn't attack him, but House insisted.

They walked in and surveyed the scene quickly. The son-Matthew? Nathan?-sat on the side of the bed next to his father and Thomas held the purse in his lap, and House wondered if he was keeping it safe from his son so he wouldn't sift through it and steal anything. Did Thomas know his son went through his stuff?

". . . so I was all, 'douche, you better not be sayin' what I think you just said' and he got up in my face so I cracked him one. Was cool-wish you could've seen it," he regaled, flinging his arms about in wild gesticulation while he spoke.

They both looked at House and then at Wilson. Thomas handed the purse to his son, who just casually put it on the bedside table-apparently, Thomas was not worried about the boy stealing anything. He hopped off the bed and stretched his arms above his head. "Well, I'm going to scout out some hot chicks. See ya," he said with a shrug and the left, but he didn't share any looks with either House or Wilson.

Thomas eyed them both and then shifted awkwardly. "So, do . . . I have MS?"

Wilson shook his head and approached the bed while House stayed against the wall, watching Thomas darkly. "We have reason to believe you might have a meningeal tumour," he opened cautiously, and Thomas' face faded quickly into white with a grey tinge. "It's . . . very rarely a malignant tumour, but we're . . . concerned because the location is near your scar. It could very easily be some scar tissue, so we'll have to do a PET scan to be sure."

Thomas nodded as if he were completely and totally accepting of that fact, but his skin was pale and his hand was shaking. His eyes were slightly wet too.

"Meningiomas are very common between the ages of forty and sixty, and are usually benign. At this point, I'd worry more about the PET scan we'll be scheduling for tomorrow," Wilson brushed off with a quick smile that reached his eyes.

Thomas chuckled airily and smiled a tiny bit, but it was humourlessly. "Right." Thomas didn't sound very enthused or like he believed a word Wilson was saying.

"We'll have to ask you not to eat for twelve hours before the exam and we'll be injecting radioactive dye; it sometimes causes some nausea and headaches, but it should be easily managed. In case it is a tumour, we'll discuss surgery then. For now we'll just need your consent to the PET scan." He handed over a clipboard with the consent forms.

Thomas stared at Wilson for a long second while he took the pen. He remained that way for a second or so, then faced the consent forms. He quickly signed it and then handed it back to Wilson without looking at him; instead, he stared at his lap. Wilson reached forward and squeezed his shoulder and Thomas lifted his hand as if to hold Wilson's, but instead he plopped it back into his lap and nodded briefly.

Wilson sat there for a second and House watched as Thomas' face didn't gain any colour back; he didn't attempt to speak. Instead he kept his lips resolutely closed while his hand shook. He wiped his mouth with his palm and heaved as if he were going to throw up, but he didn't. Wilson gave Thomas' shoulder one last pat before he stood and walked towards the door.

House met him there, getting into his personal space and watching Wilson's pupils grow for the split second their eyes met. "Make sure dietary knows not to feed him and schedule the PET scan," he ordered quietly, looking past Wilson's shoulder and at Thomas, who still found his lap highly interesting.

Wilson followed his gaze. "House, he just found out he might have cancer. I don't think now is the right time to . . . _talk_ with him."

House narrowed his eyes. "Go schedule the scan," he repeated, then gently (but with no room for interpretation as to what he was doing) pushed him out of the room.

When the door shut Thomas finally glanced at it, saw House was still there, and sighed. "What? You going to tell me I deserve it? Or convince me that the tumours are benign? Right. That's what they said about my father, too. And he turned out to have recurring hemangiopericytoma."

"Wow. Try saying _that _five times fast." Thomas pursed his lips; apparently, he was not amused. "Not here to hold your hand and give you hope. And as poetic as it would be for you to wither and die slowly from having radiation pumped into your weakened, balding body . . . Well, I've never been much for poetry."

Thomas eyed him as House finally took the last large step to stand beside his bed. Thomas visibly swallowed. "Then what are you here for?"

"That man who just looked past his religious beliefs long enough to pat you on the shoulder and tell you it'll be all right? He's my best friend. You hurt him, and I will make sure you regret ever being born."

Thomas scoffed. "I already regret that," he moped.

"Oh, please!" snarled House. "Stop with this Pity Party bullshit. Nobody cares about your stupid crush in grade school or whenever the hell it happened. You chose this life, moron-you chose to get hitched to Miss Eva Junior and raise Little Adolf. So you sit around and mope and whine about some big tittied Jew you gave the heave-ho because you were too chicken to live your own damn life? I. Don't. Care."

"What do you know about me, huh?" Thomas spat, voice raised slightly. House scowled at him and Thomas reeled his head back as if shocked by his own outburst. He looked down at his lap again and cleared his throat. "I was scared," he said, voice quieter now. "I loved her, I swear, but . . . You don't-you don't know what-I regret it. Every day, but I'm . . . it's too late now."

"Right, and you expect me to give a damn. At least Hitler had the balls to stand up for what he believed in-you, on the other hand, stand up for everything you _don't. _You're going to go back to your lie of a life with your . . . farcical family and pretend you actually care about it? You'll never be happy living that lie and the worst part of it is that you _know_ you won't be, and you still . . ."

House furrowed his brows and stared at Thomas, although he wasn't really looking at him-more like he was looking through him, at something far away. His own words rang back at him and resonated through his skull.

"I wouldn't expect you to under-"

"Shut up," House growled, then turned on his heel and limped away.

Unsurprisingly, Cuddy's day had not gotten any better. Lately, she'd been stressed-well, she was always stressed. It came with the job. However, with budget committees breathing down her neck and finance issues on top of all the problems she'd been having with House that day, it was no wonder she'd gotten a little behind. One doctor had called in sick the day before and had called someone to cover her shift, and then the doctor who was supposed to work for her had decided not to show at all, which meant Cuddy had had to do some clinic duty and check on a few patients.

She knew House was angry with her but she was angry as well.

Which meant she let out a loud groan when the door opened; she didn't even have to look to know who it was. She looked at her watch, though-he would probably be leaving soon, whereas she was stuck here for a few more hours because she was behind on her paperwork and she needed to cover some clinic hours.

"Greg," she greeted tiredly, trying to use his first name more often than usual. It still sounded strange, especially considering she'd been using his last name for the past day. "I'm tired and I'm busy. What do you want so I can get this handled and go home?"

"That talk you mentioned?"

"We already had it and I'm sure you remember how well that went." House shuffled closer to her desk, almost nervously-or, well, as nervously as House could, at any rate. She felt a sickening jolt in her chest and lowered her pen to her desk.

House cleared his throat. "Well, we need to talk again," he opened with an awkward shift of weight.

"You actually want to talk?" That couldn't be a good sign.

"This," he gestured between them with his free hand, the other clutching his cane, "isn't . . . working. And it won't."

She thought of him kissing her against the sink the night before and them discussing alternating meals. She had to have been misunderstanding his point because he wouldn't have talked about cooking and kissed her had he been having thoughts of leaving her; there would've been signs. Or had there been signs all along?

"What are you saying? Is this . . . because of the donor? One misunderstanding and-"

"No," he interrupted, but gently, pushing down on his cane and tapping it slightly against the floor. His eyes roamed around the office although he'd probably memorized every feature of it ages ago. "You're not happy. Not really. You're settling."

"House, just because I've been having a tough time for the past-"

"Two months?" he suggested and she opened her mouth to say something, but her voice faltered. "We had some times, but . . . What I said, in the clinic. About you sucking my dick. Do you really think that's the worst thing I'm going to say to you?"

Cuddy didn't try to pretend she hadn't been offended by his comment. She'd had to reapply her makeup afterwards and her chest tightened whenever she thought of it. "I realize you'll-I can learn to . . ."

"And can you learn to turn a blind eye when I say something like that to Rachel? When I call her a moron for failing a class I know she could've passed? Or what about when her and I get into a fight-as we are bound to and . . ." He sighed and shook his head.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "But . . . It's just new, House. You're stressed so you're . . . saying things. You never say these things to Wilson, so eventually-"

He scoffed. "I always say these things to Wilson. I pick out his every flaw-his . . . doomed relationship with Sam, his total failure at being a husband, the fact he's a needy-gobbling vampire who uses up women and shucks them aside . . . If you think I'm any nicer to Wilson then you're a moron."

She pursed her lips. "House-"

"See? You're not happy. And . . . Neither am I. Not really."

"But House . . . You're just-you're running because you're afraid. We've had some misunderstandings, but what relationship doesn't?" She threw her hands up as if shrugging, and her eyes were burning again with unshed tears and her throat was starting to close up. After all their tension, and all the work she'd put into getting into a relationship with him and backing out of the engagement . . . "I love you," she stated.

He sighed and looked away from her, shaking his head slightly. He'd never said it to her in return, but she knew he had a hard time verbalizing his feelings. "You don't love me. You . . . saw a side of me that not very many people see, and fell in love with that part. But . . . you can't have half a puzzle. You can't ignore the ugly pieces-you have to love it all."

"No, House-I . . . that's not what . . ."

He tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling, and she could clearly see his Adam's apple bobbing although her vision was blurring through her tears. "I'm a Monet. From a distance I'm . . . intriguing. Fascinating. The closer you get, the more screwed up I am, and . . . You're still stuck, trying to see it from a distance, although you're right up there."

Heart aching and eyes burning, she tried to ignore the truth behind his words.

"I'll clear my stuff out before you get to the house," he muttered, pressing his cane against the carpet again. "Let's just . . . end this while we can still do it civilly. Before we . . . hate each other," he grumbled, then turned on his heel and quickly shuffled out of her office, door closing more quietly than she'd ever heard it following House.

Her breath caught in her throat and she sucked in a trembling gasp, and felt the tears start to fall.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

House didn't knock because he never knocked and pushed into Wilson's office. They were only a few minutes away from the end of their work day, so he figured Wilson would be tidying up some paperwork; signing the last few signatures, going over tomorrow's schedule-boring oncologist crap, except now he had Nazi Guy to consider so maybe it was slightly more interesting. In that respect, House almost preferred boring.

Some might assume he felt free and full of life, but that wasn't the case. Oh, he knew it was better off this way-him and Cuddy breaking up-and there was a weight lifted off of his shoulder. Just like when he thought he'd missed the donor meeting earlier that day, a part of him felt relieved that tomorrow he wouldn't wake to the sounds of Rachel crying and Cuddy attempting to be Suzy Homemaker. He wasn't a mess of depression and anxiety; he wasn't going to have to lock himself away and cry like a little girl or anything.

But he wasn't sprinting through tulips, either. He was on the slightly more content side of ending a relationship even if he was a bit disheartened, and that he could deal with.

He did, however, feel like getting filthy, stinking drunk with his best friend and having a night out, and so that was what he was going to do.

Wilson barely glanced at him as he entered, and then went about his business as he sat down in the chair usually reserved for dying people. House rolled his cane between his palms and licked his bottom lip, realizing he was more upset at the fact Cuddy was probably a wreck; he'd never been on this end of the dumping stick before. Well, except for with Cameron, but that hardly counted. Still, it was better to end a relationship after two months than after five years. Better for him to accept that he was a bastard and that very few people would be able to handle that than for him to get his hopes up, yet again, just for them to crash down when she inevitably dumped him.

Still, considering the fact the relationship he'd been pursuing for ages had just ended, he wasn't really as upset as he should've been. Oh, he wasn't a ray of sunshine-but he was . . . okay. A bit morose, perhaps, but okay.

He watched Wilson furrow his brows at a piece of paperwork as if confused as to how it had appeared in his hand, then stuck it underneath two other forms and let out an exasperated sigh. He closed a blue folder and looked between it and a puce folder before stacking them on top of each other, totally casual; at peace with the fact House was inches from him, staring at him, and with his life in general. Whenever he and Cuddy were in the room, she had to always keep her eye on him, or touch him, or talk to him-she couldn't ever just rest with the fact he was there.

He thought about the fact she was probably sobbing and considering herself a failure, and he did feel guilty but no guiltier than one would for reprimanding a child. It was for the best.

"I ended it with Cuddy," he stated after a long moment of comfortable silence.

Wilson stopped moving forms and folders around and then stared at House, as if unsure he'd heard him properly. He blinked quickly a few times, reeled his head back a little, and then furrowed his brows and then nodded slowly. "I'm . . . sorry," he settled for carefully, acting as though House might snap any second.

"No you're not," House snorted. "You didn't even want us together."

"Well . . . You didn't-I mean, it's not because I said-? House, you have to do what's right for you, even if I-"

"It's not because of you," he forestalled before Wilson could somehow convince himself that he actually wanted them together again or give House yet another speech about chasing away happiness and being addicted to misery or some other such boring, psychoanalytical lecture. "I talked with Nazi Guy."

Wilson waited for a moment for House to explain further. "Uh . . . what did he say?" he asked slowly, eyeing House suspiciously.

House rolled his eyes. "Okay, so it wasn't so much as talking with as telling him he was a moron, but it served its purpose. Now can we get out of here, pack my stuff, get totally wasted, watch some big-tittied girls fight over who gets to give us pretty doctors a lap-dance and handle this situation like men?"

Wilson visibly fought back a smile and House realized he was experiencing something like déjà vu, but in reverse. Normally Wilson was the recently-single bachelor needing a pick-me-up at the strip joint. Then again, Wilson was also usually the one being dumped, rather than the one dumping, so . . .

Being single while Wilson was dating was familiar, and that unsettling almost-morose feeling waned a little. It was just like old times, really, and when Wilson and Sam finally broke up, it would just be the two of them again, like always.

* * *

Wilson had purposely ignored the feeling of elation that had filled him when he'd heard House had broken up with Cuddy. Then came the guilt for feeling elated in the first place. He tried to tell himself that he was only against their relationship because it was entirely wrong, and as true as that was, it hadn't been the only reason and he knew it, too. As much as he had liked Stacy, and he knew House had been happy with her, there had been brief moments of jealousy that he'd bottled away, just like everything else.

Back then, though, he could have believed that it was just normal jealousy all friends felt. Since then, though, they had grown closer and, as much as House would probably deny it and Wilson would never admit it, their relationship had changed into something deeper. The jealousy he'd felt around Cuddy was more intense; the feeling of uneasiness, of not being quite on the ball, left him listless.

He could admit it now because House and Cuddy were no longer together, but although Cuddy was too professional to ever kiss him at work, just seeing them together and being able to tell the small differences had bothered him; left him feeling like he was two steps behind, like being the last kid to go through puberty all over again. Seeing them standing closer than they used to or House's hand touch her in lingering ways; brush the small of her back, brush aside her hair . . . House, although he refused to admit it, was a tangible person around certain people. People he cared about; he'd never been shy about small touches; touches that could've been passed off as unnoticeable. Knees brushing, arms touching, a quick knuckle across a shoulder . . . House wasn't averse to any of that.

Wilson had known what to look for because he'd been a part of it; he'd always been on the receiving end of those touches; touches House probably didn't even realize he was doing half of the time. Whenever he'd seen it around Cuddy, though, it had felt awkwardly unpleasant; like realizing he'd swallowed a spider in his sleep, or something else equally disheartening.

He'd grinned all the way to his car and had driven him to Cuddy's place so he could pack his things. He'd helped (which actually meant he'd pretty much done all the work while House awkwardly avoided the nanny and Rachel) with the packing and surprisingly, there hadn't been much. A few books, clothes, and toiletries; Wilson felt guilty pleasure in realizing House must not have expected to stay there long if he hadn't brought more.

Like when Wilson had been camping out on his couch, or House had been staying with him that short while after Mayfield-they'd just been having a perpetual sleepover. It hadn't been like when they moved into the loft.

Despite the awkwardness of packing up and the disapproving tutting noises from the nanny, House had stopped in front of Rachel, who had babbled something at him in Spanish. He'd glared at the nanny afterwards, then patted Rachel's head, nodded once at her, and left as Wilson carried the last box to the Volvo.

Wilson took his time putting the boxes in his trunk while House sat in the passenger seat and stared at the place he'd been living in for the past while. Wilson knew the feeling of driving away from a home for the final time well. He did not know the feeling of leaving a child; not that he thought House had ever really bonded with Rachel, but he was sure that there had been some feelings for her involved.

He sat in the driver's seat and House looked away from the window and at Wilson. Wilson buckled in and smiled. "Ready to go, or . . . ?"

House frowned, looked back at the house, then nodded.

They both remained silent for the rest of the drive. House didn't complain about the station Wilson switched the radio to or when Wilson found himself driving to the loft. In fact, he'd made it nearly a block away from it when he saw the ironic smile on House's face, realized what he was doing, then had to circle around the block and head in the opposite direction. Wilson had scoffed when House laughed, and even though the moment should have been uncomfortable it really hadn't been.

"You still pay for this place?" Wilson asked as they pulled up to the old apartment. The last time he'd been here, he'd interrupted some childish fun with Alvie and he'd felt irrationally jealous then, too. The time before that . . . Well, he'd been taking House to Mayfield.

"Be prepared," House mocked in his best imitation of Wilson's voice, which wasn't all that bad, actually.

Wilson unbuckled and got out of the car at the same time House did. "Were you, uh . . ." He cleared his throat and went to the trunk, knowing that House was watching him. "When you were living with me. In the loft. Were you still . . . ?" He gestured at the apartment as he popped the trunk open.

There was a brief silence. "Well, it was only a matter of time before some girl moved in and you kicked me out," he explained, not even bothering to evade or lie.

Wilson felt sick and stared at the boxes packed neatly beside one another. He felt House's hand on his and he looked at it; House pulled their hands away from the trunk and then slammed it shut for him. "House, wha . . . ?"

"Come on; let's leave that for later. Call up a cab; I don't plan on being able to drive tonight."

Wilson smiled and House leant against the back of the car, tie uneven, shirt untucked and a little wrinkled, and looking devilishly handsome. When House narrowed his eyes in what looked like confusion Wilson realized he'd been staring, so he cleared his throat and stepped away from the car. House hitched himself up on it, sitting on the trunk with his cane dangling between his spread legs, rolling it between his palms casually. Wilson reached into his cell phone to call the cab company.

"Spending the night?" House asked, eyes roaming up and down the familiar street; the skies were darkening.

Wilson smiled since he knew House wasn't paying attention. "Yeah, su-oh, wait. No. I . . . don't have a change of clothes."

"Sure you do. You left something here a bazillion years ago."

Wilson had left a few pairs of pants, some shirts, and a few ties here sometime during his marriage to Bonnie, seeing as he'd spent more time here than with her and afterwards he'd just left them there, since he had often impulsively spent the night. "I . . . thought you would've gotten rid of them," he admitted.

"Too lazy," House brushed off.

Wilson smiled softly at his friend, knowing that House was still busy looking around his street to notice. "Okay. But I'll have to call Sam first."

House waved his hand at him like he would to swat away a fly.

Wilson walked away although he doubted it was far enough to keep his conversation completely private were House to listen. He didn't care.

Her phone rang twice and she answered halfway through the third ring.

"Hello?" she asked although it was all show; she had caller ID. House had never bothered. He usually answered with a burp or some derogatory comment.

"It's James," he said. "I, uh . . . I won't be home tonight."

"Working late?" she asked quietly; her tone was a mixture of worry and something snide.

"No. It's just . . . House." He gritted his teeth against her loud scoff. He realized he was pacing a few steps back and forth. "He and Cuddy . . . broke up," he muttered and glanced at House, who appeared to have not heard a thing but appearances could be deceiving so he didn't really know if he had.

He waited for a sympathetic noise or a gasp of how horrible that was. She said nothing, not that he had expected her to or anything.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "So I thought taking him out for a few drinks would be best; he's a little . . . upset." Which wasn't a lie; House was a _little_ upset. Of course, his tone had implied that it was more than that. Manipulation had always been one of his better talents.

"Hmm. Drinking-do you think that best?"

At this point, he had no idea if she was nagging on his unhealthy food choices or his propensity to cheat. He'd always thought the former to be ridiculous; Wilson tended to be quite healthy in his food choices. He was a doctor for God's sake-he knew all about cholesterol, and he had his annual check-up. Of course he indulged every now and then, but he supposed to a health nut like Sam, indulging sometimes was something worth nagging over, and with the exception of wine with dinner occasionally she'd never been all that fond of drinking.

"I'm not going to sleep with him," he told her with an eye-roll.

"I wasn't suggesting . . ."

He waited for her to finish but she didn't. "Anyway, I was planning on spending the night; he probably shouldn't be alone right now. He hasn't been in a relationship since Stacy, so . . . Well, he was wreck after her."

The brief silence on the other end annoyed him. "Well . . . If you insist, but I'm having lunch with you tomorrow."

Wilson cleared his throat and felt his chest tighten sickeningly. "Er, Sam, that's-well, tomorrow, I might have to . . . add someone to my caseload, so-"

"Lunch at the hospital," she interrupted, and he knew that tone well-she was clenching her teeth and forcing a smile. "With House," she added.

He swallowed and looked back at House, who was swinging his legs alternately, still rolling his cane impatiently. Unlike House, Wilson was all right with compromise. "Okay, but let's try and leave work out of the conversation," he said, eyeing House as he looked over at Wilson and raised both of his eyebrows.

"I know you don't like talking about work at the table, honey," she soothed. "So I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Of course," he said. He knew she was about to tell him she loved him, and he really could not handle that at the moment. "The cab's here; I have to go," he uttered quickly, the quickly hung up the phone.

Lying was also one of his better talents.

He went over to House as he slowly punched in the number for the first cab company he could remember. "Sam wants to have lunch with us tomorrow," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose as he held the receiver to his ear.

"And you want to keep work out of the conversation?" House aired innocently.

"Shut up," he murmured in response. House raised his eyebrows and Wilson sighed. "Look, it's different with you. You don't get . . . delicate."

All House did was snort back some laughter.

* * *

He hadn't been drunk for a long while, but he remembered why he'd enjoyed doing it as soon as the buzz melted into something deeper. Seeing the dopey, lopsided grin on Wilson's face made him laugh; having hot, scantily clad women grinding in his lap and pressing their chests in his face made him horny; catching Wilson staring darkly at him getting a lap dance made his head spin.

Wilson had declined the first two lap dances, but then he'd shrugged and chuckled when the third girl offered. House had watched and become irrationally aroused at seeing some hot blonde girl writhe all over his best friend; Wilson had chuckled but kept his hands of off her and then when she left he did a stupid little arm pump.

Even by the time they'd decided it was best to get back to House's apartment-they did have work in the morning, after all-they were still pretty toasted and had plopped onto the couch unceremoniously, knees and hips touching and the situation familiar and right and House just a tad horny still, his head thumping and buzzing to the steady thrum of music at the strip joint, although his apartment was silent.

They smelled of sweat and body lotion and perfume; the alcohol was a given. He smelled watermelons and laundry detergent and Wilson, too. He turned the television on and put it on a random channel; at this point, images and sounds were really all that mattered; he couldn't tell the difference between a commercial and a television show at this level of inebriation.

The strip joint seemed to have taken up hours and seconds of their lives simultaneously and the music still absently echoed in his brain. Wilson was slowly nattering on about something, but he couldn't concentrate on anything but what they were selling on TV.

He put his hand on Wilson's knee.

That felt right.

He and Wilson had been drunk plenty of times before, and he'd leant against his friend more than necessary; touched him on the knee, shoulder, hip . . . A part of him believed that if he wasn't constantly touching something it would leave him without his notice; he could hardly believe he'd managed to go a few months without bumping Wilson's arm with his.

Wilson snorted and at first House thought he was retching at the thought House was touching him, and then he heard the chuckles. "Do people actually buy any of that? The acting is so . . ." Wilson's head plopped on House's shoulder. ". . . fake," he yawned into his sleeve.

One of Wilson's arms was trapped between his own body and House's shoulder; the other draped over House's abdomen like a seatbelt.

Wilson was a bit grabby when he was drunk. Never quite like this, though. Maybe an 'accidental' hug or two, or an overly-kind compliment and flirty glance, but . . .

House swallowed a dry patch in his throat and his head plopped back against the couch, feeling the cushion against the base of his head. It was soft and warm, as was Wilson, nuzzling against his side and trying to scoot closer or into his body so they could become one; he wasn't sure. He knew Wilson was saying something about the infomercial being fake, though, his voice slowly quieting and tapering off without finishing a sentence. He felt the tip of Wilson's nose brush his neck and Wilson tightened his grip around his stomach, muttered something unintelligible, and House grunted tiredly.

Something loud interrupted his relaxed state and he snorted back some drool and coughed, sitting up straighter and staring at the television. An infomercial no longer graced his vision; instead, coloured bars and a loud beeping noise assaulted his ears. Whatever random channel he'd put it on apparently still went off air, and he must've fallen asleep without meaning to since it hadn't been that late a few seconds ago.

The remote on the cushion beside him was cold and he switched off the TV but when he went to move off the couch he felt tingles shoot up his leg and a dead weight on his shoulder.

He looked at Wilson's head, pressing insistently against his shoulder. Wilson's arm no longer secured itself around his abdomen tightly, but draped across his lap. He felt something warm and wet on his shoulder and realized Wilson had drooled and as disgusting as that was, House didn't really mind it. What he did mind was the almost-painful tingling up and down his bad leg, so he nudged Wilson roughly with his shoulder, who did an odd grunt mixed with a snore and then sat up straight, eyes lopsidedly closed and one side of his face red with the creases of House's shirt indenting his skin. "Hmm?" he managed, staring blearily at House, then plopped his forehead to his shoulder. "Mm, sleep House," he grumbled as a suggestion, wrapping his arm around him again like a teddy bear.

"Can't do that with you on me. And my leg's asleep," he said, oddly quiet seeing as they were alone and it was the middle of the night. Or rather, really early morning.

Wilson pushed away from House and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around the living room, probably for pillows. House moved to stand but his leg gave out underneath him because of the pins and needles, and he wordlessly lifted both of his arms and gave Wilson a pointed stare. Or at least he hoped it was a pointed stare-he was still drunk enough for the world to be tipping and reasserting itself every few moments. Wilson looked at him blankly for a few seconds, then wrapped his arms around House like he was giving him a bear hug and pulled him to his feet unsteadily, stumbling backwards but he didn't fall.

House draped his right arm over Wilson's shoulder and Wilson wrapped his arm around House's waist and they staggered in the direction of his bedroom, a familiar drunken path with a familiar Wilson-shaped crutch. Sometimes, familiarity bred contempt . . . but somehow, not with Wilson. Even as the floor dipped and swayed underneath him and his vision blurred, he could still move through his apartment out of reflex with Wilson at his side, pressed against him while they tried to keep each other steady-a feat far simpler now than it had been the first few times they'd done this after the infarction.

They somehow pushed the door open and tripped over their feet towards his bed.

Wilson stepped away from House but didn't leave; instead he grabbed House's shoulders and made him turn to face him, so that House's back faced the foot of the bed. Wilson steadied him, eyes unfocused but smile half-dopey. "House," he whispered, then frowned and pulled his head back. _"House,"_ he repeated slowly, as if he were a toddler trying out a new word, which was something House was unfortunately familiar with. He put one hand on his shoulder and blinked, opening his eyes wider than necessary and swaying slightly. "House, you can-" He hiccupped. "Can't sleep with a tie on."

House reached up and pawed at his tie, then realized that he was too tired and drunk to care if it got wrinkled. "You can iron it in the morning," he mumbled.

Wilson grabbed his shoulders. "It'll ch-oke you," he managed through a hiccup. He held House's face and smiled at him, thumb brazenly stroking his mouth although he probably thought he'd done it gently and House wondered where all this sudden flirtatious behaviour had come from or was he just now noticing it?

He grabbed House's tie and undid it, probably not nearly as smoothly as he normally could but House was busy staring at Wilson's mouth to truly care. The tie fell at his feet and Wilson made to bend over and pick it up, but House had been relying on his steadying grasp more than he'd thought and he began to tip backwards. He must've made a noise because Wilson looked up and House grabbed him as he fell backwards onto his bed, so that Wilson landed on him with an oomph.

House stared at his ceiling and scoffed back a chuckle. "Putting on weight recently?" he slurred, stroking Wilson's head.

Wilson hummed into his collarbone and it vibrated through his spine and sent goosebumps up his arm. He tugged at Wilson's hair in retaliation, but not hard. The noise Wilson made forced House's stomach to swoop and he hummed, scratching at Wilson's scalp.

"Your father wasn't a very good blanket-maker," House murmured many moments later and only because his ribs were starting to disagree with the position.

Wilson grunted, crawled sluggishly away from House's body and then plopped onto the pillow on the left side of the bed. House waited for a few seconds, then scooted so that he could lie beside his friend, on his left side so he could face him. With his face buried in the pillow but still in the same clothes he'd worn all day, Wilson looked almost dead. House nudged him, perhaps a bit harder than necessary, in the ribs.

Wilson let out a groan to show he'd felt the unsubtle jab.

"This isn't your bed," House reminded.

Wilson turned his head away from the pillows to stare at him with half-closed lids. "Bed's halfway 'cross town, House," he grumbled.

"Your bed's in the living room."

Wilson whined then got on his hands and knees, and despite his warning of being choked he'd given House, he still wore his ugly tie. He didn't make it off the bed though. He just flopped onto his back as if he'd wasted all of his energy to move. He stared up at the ceiling, then clumsily worked away the knot in his tie.

"I'll go to the couch later," he promised tiredly, tossing his tie to the floor.

"No you won't," House predicted, tracing a line down Wilson's side with his finger.

Wilson grinned and his eyes fluttered shut.

House waited for him to bat his hand away or make some sarcastic comment about the couch being too lumpy, but he didn't. He just continued smiling lazily as House stroked his side again.

"I thought you told Sam you weren't gonna sleep with me," he wheedled, but the fact he slid his fingers down Wilson's arms and pet the inside of his palm contradicted his words and he knew it. He had no idea what he was doing or why, but he blamed it on the alcohol.

He really ought to have been more upset at being single, and yet . . .

He blamed that on the alcohol as well. That was the safest route.

He tapped the middle of Wilson's palm and Wilson chuckled. "Yeah, well, since when do I keep my promises to my girlfriends?"

"Oh-hoh, someone's getting introspective," House mocked, tracing his vein for a brief second. The human body was interesting-soft peach tones covering thin, barely visible blue, leading into the red, red heart and grey, grey brain . . . blue leaking into blood when it was brought to the surface, the hue violated by layers of skin . . . Warm underneath his fingertips when he slid them into between Wilson's fingers.

Wilson hummed and squeezed his hand. "Y'know what I think?"

House held on tightly. "What do you think?" he whispered, staring at Wilson's face; eyes closed, grin barely there, and pristine clothes wrinkled and world ticking to the right repeatedly.

"I . . . think . . ." He managed before sighing. His hand went limp and his head dropped to the side slightly, facing House just a tad more.

There were two types of people, House had decided long ago-the type who, when they slept, looked peaceful and beautiful; like a princess, waiting to be rescued. And then there were the people who looked absolutely, one hundred percent, conked out and dead to the world. Although Wilson was the latter, House couldn't take his eyes off him, until he felt his eyes slide shut and darkness settle in.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

When he woke, he didn't roll over and try to drape his arm over Wilson-he could feel the empty space next to him; the absence of any warmth. He slowly drifted into alertness and noticed Wilson wasn't beside him. He wondered if Wilson had panicked to find himself in bed with another man-not just any man, but his best friend. House, on the other hand, wasn't panicking; a long time ago he'd figured that with as close as they were one night they would do something heterosexually challenged whilst drunk. He'd assumed it would be something more graphic than sleeping in the same bed and some hand-holding, but it was still . . . somehow intimate.

A part of him had wanted to wake before Wilson, but he'd known immediately that wouldn't happen. No way would he wake up before his early-bird friend. Or at least to wake to find Wilson pressed against him. Which surprised him considering that he'd just broken up with Cuddy; he still should've been hung up on her but he really wasn't. It only proved how much of a farce they really had been. He cared about her, he always had, and found her attractive and all of that . . . but he'd never loved her. Liked her enough to be upset when she went with Lucas, and maybe there had been a window of opportunity he had missed; a window that could've led him down a path where they would've fallen in love. But he hadn't and a few months ago, he'd been upset at the thought of her being engaged. Now he was only mildly bummed to have dumped her. When had he made it to the point where he'd become indifferent?

Perhaps he had been like that little boy who wanted nothing but ice cream for dinner every day and his parents granted his wish. At first the chocolate and vanilla and caramel syrup had been perfection; after awhile, all he got was a stomach-ache. They never could've lasted.

He and Wilson already had.

He shook his head free of those thoughts when he heard some vague clanging in the kitchen. He opened his eyes and felt his lids stick slightly and his head swim with the after-effects of alcohol binging. Once it swam, it seemed to have set free all the symptoms of a hangover and he groaned when his head pulsed and stomach clenched.

He reached for his bottle of Ibuprofen he kept on the bedside drawer, then realized that all of his pain pills had been removed from his apartment when he moved in with Cuddy. Seeing as he hadn't unpacked anything his pills were in Wilson's trunk. He slid out of bed and groaned louder when he realized he had to go to work.

When he left the room and stepped into the living room, the lights fortunately dim, he detoured into the bathroom and opened the replaced mirror-cabinet, hoping there would be something there although he knew there wasn't. He saw the bare cupboard and sighed.

He shut the mirror and saw Wilson's reflection leaning in the doorframe. "Now who's the creepy one?" House murmured.

"Just . . . seeing if you were all right."

"I'm hung over," he deadpanned. "No, I'm not all right. Whose dumb idea was it to do this on a work night?"

"Yours," Wilson answered and then pushed off of the doorframe, hands in his pockets as he ambled behind him.

House stared at their reflections in the mirror and, although he looked like hell, something about seeing Wilson standing behind him with his hair combed perfectly, smelling of watermelon with a grey sweater vest and Navy blue tie made his heart skip. He actually looked . . . Well, as if he hadn't been drunk last night. He looked attractive; House could admit he found Wilson attractive. He was single now, after all.

Wilson pulled the bottle of pills from his pocket and placed it on the sink basin, which meant his chest was pressed against House's back for a longer second than necessary, his brown eyes locking onto House, the colour seemingly darker than usual.

He stepped away and stuffed his hands in his pockets, walking backwards and smiling thinly with his chin tilted slightly. House had seen that look before-the first time he'd played the organ. And just like before, he slowly backed away, turned, and slipped out of the bathroom in a too-casual way that came off almost suave.

House looked at the toothbrush he definitely hadn't unpacked, and then dry swallowed four pills.

* * *

Chase drank his coffee while Foreman poured himself a cup and Taub worked on the crossword puzzle he'd lifted from Chase. He didn't mind-he hadn't been able to figure out half the words anyway; too busy with the Mueller case. Foreman had his lips pursed and chin tilted upward, obviously still a little miffed over House taking the Nazi case. Taub and Thirteen seemed pretty unaffected by it other than Taub's either indifference or disbelief of Thomas' feelings for that woman. Thirteen hadn't said much about Thomas while they'd checked out his house, except that she wondered what his family felt about him dabbling in eastern philosophy and that she hadn't seen a home with so much tea since her grandmother had died. He would've thought her detached behaviour had been spurred on by the fact they were treating a Nazi, but she'd been acting strange before, too.

"An eight lettered word beginning with V," Taub aired to the room, head tilted to the side. "Curry; wine of garlic."

"Starts with V?" Thirteen asked.

Taub blinked. "Unless Chase was wrong about the word 'thrive,'" he muttered.

Chase leant across the desk to see the crossword, reading it upside down. "I was _not_ wrong about thrive," he defended as the door swished open and House and Wilson walked into the differential diagnosis room. It was twenty minutes past nine so House wasn't any later than he used to be before he started dating Cuddy. It was almost refreshing, the fact he was showing up late again. "Some sort of curry that begins with a V. Can't be too hard; look it up on Google."

"That would be cheating," Taub said slowly, still eyeing the eight boxes in question.

"Right, and you'd _never_ do that," Chase replied.

Taub glared as a response.

"Vindaloo," Wilson said. When they all stared at him. "What? I take cooking classes. It's a really hot type of curry." Chase hummed to himself and Taub quickly wrote it down. Chase looked back at Wilson to watch him shrug. "I really like curry," he aired uselessly.

Something about what he said must've pleased House because he smiled briefly; so briefly Chase wouldn't have caught it had he not be watching. Everyone else was busy looking elsewhere. It was just a quick glimmer of . . . amusement? Genuine pleasure?

"Chase," House barked, eyes narrowed in on him. Perhaps he'd caught Chase seeing him smile and was about to take it out on him. "My Aryan pretty boy, I need you to go with Wilson here for the PET scan."

"House, I'm perfectly capable-"

"He's still my patient, so whether you're capable isn't the issue. Chase, go with him. It's scheduled for ten-thirty, so you better get that dye in him quick."

House limped into his office and Wilson watched him with an expression Chase couldn't read, but if the soft smile on his face was any indication, it wasn't an unpleasant one. By the time Chase stood from his chair, the indecipherable expression on his face was gone.

* * *

Other than the fact Thomas had very nearly fallen as he'd stood, they hadn't had any trouble. They'd put him in a wheelchair and wheeled him to prevent more dizzy spells. He'd been quiet the ride up to the PET scan and only spoke to answer questions. He hadn't eaten, his wife had gone into work early, his son was at summer school . . .

By the time they'd made it to the PET scan with the dye administered, he'd said he didn't feel dizzy anymore but Chase didn't believe him. When he'd stood he'd walked a bit to stiffly to the table and leaned a little too heavily on them.

He sat in the protected room, the familiar green tinge of lighting surrounding them while Wilson joined Chase in watching through the green wall. Thomas' chest rose and fell rapidly and he shifted awkwardly.

"He's moving too much," Wilson murmured.

Chase pressed the button that allowed him to talk with their patient. "Thomas, I'm going to have to ask you to lie still, please."

"Sorry. I'm just . . . claustrophobic."

Chase winced. "Right. This . . . procedure might take awhile. Will you be able to control it or . . . ?"

"I should be fine. Sorry."

"S'all right," he murmured, then released the button.

They both watched in silence and Thomas slid into the machine. "You know House isn't going to let you examine the scans. I'm supposed to send these to pathology."

"Well, he wouldn't want me getting too invested before he's actually on my caseload," Wilson shrugged off with a slight eye-roll.

Chase thought of the way House had adamantly wanted Thomas not to have cancer. "Well, he's just . . . being protective. I mean, he _says_ he fell in love with some Jewish girl God knows when and you know how House is when it comes to patients lying. For all he knows, maybe he just lied so that we wouldn't, I don't know . . . let his beliefs affect our judgment. I don't blame him for not wanting you alone with him. He probably doesn't want Cuddy alone with him, either."

"Do you believe him?"

"What, you mean about the girl?" Wilson nodded. Chase bit down on his bottom lip in thought and then shrugged one shoulder. "Well, yeah. I mean, even if it isn't true, he wants it to be. I actually feel bad for the guy. I mean, can you imagine _knowing_ everyone around you would . . . think your love was impure or deviant or something to be ashamed of? I guess people stop really believing in that doomed star-crossed lovers stuff once they get out of high school, but then you come across a Nazi who loved a Jew but . . . it doesn't have the happy ending where he rides off into the sunset with her in his lap. Or like that gay patient we had awhile back. He went through all that . . . torture because, what? He loved another guy? I can't even imagine what that feels like."

Wilson didn't say anything. In fact, his silence was so thick Chase had to look at him. He had a dark expression on his face and his lips were pulled tight, but not in anger so much as thought. His brows were furrowed and he didn't seem to be looking at Thomas or his vitals anymore so much as at something far away.

Chase remembered the expression Wilson had had on his face as he watched House retreat into his office. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered about the nature of their relationship but something about it felt different this time; different from the faraway, wistful-looking glances they had on their faces when the other wasn't looking, or an accidental but intimate touch that he'd only ever seen couples use; so habitual they didn't even realize they were doing it. Or maybe they did.

Maybe Wilson _did_ know what it was like to have unconventional and controversial feelings for someone he'd been raised to think he shouldn't. From the looks of it, those feelings were probably reciprocated. And several people owed Chase money.

"His heart rate's elevating," Wilson pointed out.

Chase saw that Wilson was right, figured it was about the stress, and sighed. "We better talk to him; calm him down."

Wilson leaned forward and pressed the button. "So, Thomas . . . how did you meet your wife?"

Thomas waited for a few seconds before answering. "Um, it was in '93. I'd lived in Arizona for almost two years and . . . I had a favourite coffee shop and she had just been hired; she'd moved there from a few towns over and we started talking. We dated for about six months and she got pregnant so . . ."

"So, Nathaniel was . . . ?"

"No, she miscarried twice. We didn't have Nathaniel until '95. That's when I got my swastika-I knew she'd want to raise him with her beliefs and as far as she knew I felt the same, so . . ."

Chase checked his heart rate; it hadn't gone down any. He was still stressed because of the enclosed space and Chase thought of something that might actually calm him down. It wasn't that he particularly cared more for Thomas' comfort than any other patient, but he didn't want Thomas to start fidgeting again. "Tell us about her," he asked, accidentally cutting across Wilson.

"Oh, Sarah's . . . well. She's aggressive and protective, but . . . Well, she's very modern. That's why she goes to rallies and protests but she'd never hurt anybody-she thinks violence is archaic, but that integration is . . . I don't know; idealistic."

"I meant the girl from school. The one you fell in love with," Chase explained further. Thomas didn't say anything. Chase waited for a moment as he watched the heart and breathing rate to make sure that everything was okay. "Thomas?" he urged.

"She was smart," Thomas stated slowly, his voice a completely different tone than before; softer, but with more emotion. "Oh, and she was-she was so funny. She could make me laugh so hard my sides hurt and-and I don't know where she came up with most of it, but it so . . . funny. And she cared so much about people-she wasn't like Sarah, who . . . I don't know. Sarah's always has some . . . movement; some sort of goal. It's not about the individuals, but their group. Which . . . isn't a bad thing necessarily, but . . . Anyway, we used go to homeless shelters; serve them soup, give them blankets . . . But that's not to say she was _always _doing a cause or anything," he rushed to explain, as if worried Chase would scoff. "I mean, we went to a few parties; got drunk and embarrassed ourselves like college-goers do, so she wasn't . . . um . . ."

"Boring?" Chase offered.

"She wasn't boring," Thomas said, and then he chuckled. "She was so gorgeous. Just . . . We met, um, in this class we took. It was a sort of . . . philosophical pathophysiology class that dealt a lot with ethics. I'd wanted to take a swing dancing course but it really didn't have anything to do with my major so I dropped it after a week and took that other class instead, so I . . . I asked her what I'd missed, we started studying . . ."

Chase couldn't help but smile at the story, as sappy as it was, but he'd never been embarrassed to admit he was a little bit soft for romance. He wanted to ask if she'd known he was raised a Nazi, but he figured that wouldn't calm Thomas down any and since his heart rate had slowed and he appeared to be much calmer, he didn't want to push it.

He let go of the button and sat back in his seat, watching as the PET scan progressed.

"I believe him," Chase said a few moments later as he ruminated over the stories. "I mean, not about the medical school bit, but . . ."

Wilson hummed, remaining quiet long enough to look at the computer images. "Well, it's a nice story," he brushed off quietly with a small shrug and a scratch to the back of his neck. Chase frowned-Wilson didn't seem to have believed him.

After that, they mostly remained quiet, except for some small talk. He asked Wilson how Sam was doing and he said they were having lunch with House and Chase made a joke about how that was likely to go and Wilson chuckled dryly in agreement; they discussed the chances of Thomas surviving the cancer and how Chase had gotten a call from a girl he'd talked to at that speed dating thing they'd gone to ages ago. The only real subject of interest had been that House left Cuddy and Chase groaned and made a comment about owing Taub fifty bucks.

Despite working on the same floor as Wilson for years, they'd never really gotten close. If they weren't having small talk, they were discussing House, and that was pretty much it. They nodded at each other in halls or mentioned how their days were going, but . . .

"I'll take Thomas to his room; you take everything to pathology," Wilson said after the entire scanning process was done, which had taken a little less than a half-hour.

Chase stood out of his chair as Wilson did and they went to exit the green room, then he frowned and stepped a little in front of Wilson-not enough to be intrusive or in his space, but enough to prevent him from walking out. "I don't think House would like you alone with the patient."

"He's going to be on my caseload. Are you going to do my rounds with me then, too?" Chase frowned; he did have a point there. Wilson sighed. "He won't hurt me; he's not a Nazi."

Chase swallowed. "No, but he does go to great lengths to make people _think_ he's a Nazi." If something happened to Wilson, House would go ballistic. Of course, the chances of that happening were slim considering that Wilson did have a point-he was going to have to be alone with him sometime in the future, but still . . . He wasn't on his caseload yet, and House probably wouldn't want Thomas alone with his Jewish girlfriend, either. Or rather, ex-girlfriend. It wasn't a completely ridiculous suggestion. "Why don't you take these down to pathology and I'll take Thomas to his room instead?"

Wilson raised one hand as if to ward off Chase. "If I take those, you know they won't be going to pathology. Chase, it's fine. If he wants to prove his . . . beliefs, he'll find some other way than to attack a doctor in a hospital. Somebody would see."

He brushed by causally, and Chase had to concede. Even if he wasn't on his caseload yet, he was bound to be and Chase couldn't go with him every single time they did radiation or a physical exam. But still, as he walked out of the PET scan room just as Thomas was sitting in his wheelchair, he couldn't shake his head free of unpleasant thoughts.

Maybe nothing would happen now, but what if it happened later? If the meningioma turned out to be something else? Something more fatal or when the radiation made him so sick he couldn't think straight? And maybe it wasn't Thomas he worried about; the family actually believed in that. The chance of the family actually knowing Wilson was Jewish was slim since they had only researched House's staff online, but he couldn't shake off the feeling of what if; just what if the Jewish girl really _was_ a lie? What then? Maybe nothing would happen in the hospital, but Wilson wasn't always surrounded by security and other employees, and even so, it wasn't as if people hadn't made it into the hospital with a gun before. More than once.

No wonder House didn't want him having cancer-Chase wasn't even his friend and he was already wishing it weren't cancer, too. He tried to ignore the worry spilling into his gut as he continued on his way, but he failed.

* * *

The two of them were forcibly quiet as Wilson wheeled Thomas down the hall. The squeak of the wheels and awkward silence fell underneath the talk of those around them, but Wilson was just as aware of it as he would've been had they been alone. The bright lighting gleamed off of Thomas' bald head, shifting and dancing across his skin. Wilson held onto the handles, knuckles white with how hard he was clenching them.

The elevator held three others the entire ride to their floor, and their silence really only made Wilson more aware of how awkward he felt with the entire situation.

When he left the elevator and headed towards the room, a few nurses smiled prettily at him and he nodded at them each in greeting, their silence louder than the chattering echoing of the halls and the beeps of monitors from the rooms they passed. He swallowed the knot in his throat when they pushed into his empty, and far quieter, room.

He shut the door, closing off even more of the light. It was dim inside his room, but the hallway lighting shone through the mostly closed blinds. Strips of white striped the walls and floor, and Wilson pushed the chair closer to the bed.

Thomas moved to stand but he swayed and fell back into the chair. Thomas wouldn't look at him.

"Do you need help standing?" Wilson asked, voice almost raspy.

Thomas cleared his throat and looked downward. He turned away from Wilson and the gesture reminded him a bit of House; refusing to acknowledge he needed help. Wilson helped Thomas stand out of the wheelchair and draped his arm over his shoulder. The movement reminded him of last night; him helping House stand out of the couch and the two of them staggering towards his bed. The memory mixed with everything else around him and he felt his heart skip a beat.

He helped Thomas into the bed; it was half-raised so it looked a bit like a recliner. When Thomas settled against it, he visibly swallowed and opened his lids, grey eyes meeting Wilson's.

Wilson sat on the edge of the mattress beside Thomas' hip, legs draped over the side and torso turned so he could face him.

"I'm going to die," Thomas stated, voice wavering with emotion; his eyes looked a little glassy.

"Don't say that. Chances are it's completely benign."

Thomas chuckled once, but humourlessly. Tears dripped over his lids and across his cheeks. "They said that to Dad, too."

"If you'd gone into the treatment earlier-"

"Yeah, right," he grumbled, then dragged his palm over his face, sucking in a shallow breath. When his palm disappeared, his tears were falling freely. "I shouldn't have . . . After what I did, I don't . . . I deserve to die," he managed, voice shaking and breaking repeatedly; voice hitching up a few pitches.

"Hey now, don't say-" His beeper trilled, interrupting him effectively, and he sighed, grabbing it.

Thomas' hand clasped his wrist tightly, fingers biting into his veins, before Wilson could even read what it had to say. Wilson's hold on the pager loosened and it dropped to the mattress with a barely-audible thunk. His heart leapt into his throat and choked him so he couldn't breathe. Thomas' grip was strong enough to be almost painful, but not enough to bruise. Wilson pulled his wrist back but Thomas gripped tighter, his hand shaking. His lips were pressed tightly together-so tightly they were quivering and he breathed in through his nose.

"I'm sorry," Thomas whispered, voice cracking. Wilson remained still, focusing on his reflection in Thomas' watery eyes. "I'm so sorry," he repeated, voice quieter and thicker with emotion, chin wobbling.

"Shh, don't-it's fine, okay?" Wilson's voice cracked just then and he cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump.

Thomas closed his eyes briefly and sucked in a deep, shaky breath through his nose, his grip on Wilson's wrist tighter now. "Don't do that. I don't-it's not. It's not fine."

Wilson swallowed and his heart beat faintly but rapidly in his ribcage. He stared at Thomas' chest and although he couldn't see the swastika through the patient gown, just knowing it was there made him keep staring. "You're hurting my wrist," he whispered.

Thomas glanced at his palm, encircling Wilson's wrist tightly, as if he'd just realized it, and then let go. Instead of pulling away though, he brushed the back of his knuckles down the side of Wilson's face, then tucked them under his chin, his thumb gliding gently over his bottom lip.

"I'm sorry," he repeated so quietly Wilson almost didn't hear him.

Wilson's eyes ticked away from where he knew that tattoo was, and locked onto Thomas'. "I know," he breathed.

Thomas leaned forward, hesitating briefly before pressing his lips to Wilson's. Wilson closed his lids and leaned into the kiss, chest aching and eyes burning slightly. Years had gone by since they'd last kissed so Wilson couldn't tell if he tasted the same as he had; if the tilt of his head and touch of his lips felt familiar. He could feel the wet slide of the water streaked down his face, though, and when his mouth fell open and tongue brushed Thomas', he could taste the salty tears.

Thomas' breath hitched and he pulled away long enough to sniff and choke out a small sob, pressing their foreheads together and holding Wilson's face, then he kissed him again, tongues meeting and massaging in an almost-familiar rhythm, salty and too wet. Wilson felt his throat constricting and tears forming behind closed lids when Thomas tilted his head a bit more, deepening the kiss and clutching at his lab coat, pulling him nearer.

He felt that Thomas was leaning against his reclining mattress and pressed against him more firmly. Thomas was dying and regretted everything since he'd left. Ever since Wilson had heard his name in House's office, breaking that rubber band he'd been playing with, he'd been lost in thoughts of how they'd been; all the times they'd snuck off into one of the University's bathrooms to fondle each other; all the times they'd stayed in Thomas' bed, curled around each other and just listening to each other breathe; how Thomas had been his escape from Sam; how everything had been just fine until he'd up and left.

And now here Wilson was, with Sam _again_ and knowing their relationship would fail and kissing a man he hadn't spoken to for almost twenty years. There was no spark; just pain and nostalgia and neediness; God, if House could see him now-

House.

With one hand on either side of Thomas' head, against his mattress, it was easy to shove himself away and blurt; "We can't do this."

He was across the room, panting and pacing and panicking a second later, pinching the bridge of his nose. His pager beeped from somewhere on Thomas' bed and he ignored it. "This is-TJ, we can't-we can't just-I'm with Sam."

"_Still?"_

Wilson couldn't even glance at him; his heart was hammering too hard in his chest. House. He'd been trying so hard to keep calm and collected around House and his team; House could sniff out odd behaviour and secrets like a K9 could sniff out cocaine. Now he'd gone and made out with his ex-boyfriend; the exact _opposite_ of being disinterested and keeping his calm.

"Well, not still; we-we divorced but we're trying to-" He shook his head and rubbed his face, still pacing. "Trying to give it a second chance."

"I see," Thomas muttered with a sniff.

Wilson froze and faced him, realizing how far from him he was and reconsidering Chase's offer to take Thomas to his room instead. If only he could travel through time. "You can't be expecting me to . . . What, try with you again? You left me without-without even having the decency to _tell _me-you just-"

"I know," he interrupted a bit harshly, then he sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his palm. "I'm not proud of it, but-but what choice did I have?"

"What choice? TJ, I had _everything packed._ I was going to leave Sam for you!"

"And what did you expect?" he shouted, emotion breaking his voice. "That we'd move into some damn two-story house together with-with a dog and a perfectly normal life? If my brother found us-if _anybody_ I knew saw us or even _suspected-"_

"It would've been nice to have a warning," he sniped, growling in the way he knew irritated House whenever they argued.

"You hadn't told your family either, James, so don't get on your damn high horse," he snapped angrily, curling his lip into a scowl.

"Why would I come out to my _wife and family_ if you couldn't even tell your family that, oh, I don't know, you weren't a damn Nazi?" Thomas looked away from him, his lips pursed and silent tears marking his cheeks. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't-you're sick and I'm . . . yelling at you. I'm sorry," he blurted, guilt trickling into his gut along with anger.

Thomas clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I just . . . I realize what I did was wrong. Leaving you like that. If I could take it back . . . but I can't. I just wanted . . . to see you. Apologize. Make sure you were happy. God, I sound . . . stupid."

"It's not stupid," he said and although the anger was ebbing it still coloured his tone slightly. "And . . . It's fine. You were scared and . . . I was stupidly idealistic." He rubbed the back of his neck and watched as Thomas looked down at the pager he'd left on the mattress; the pager that had beeped twice.

They looked at each other, the space between them seemingly miles although it really was only half a room, and Thomas wiped his cheeks again. "I know it isn't my business and I'm not here to . . . complicate things between you and Sam, but . . . are you in love with House?"

"I . . . really ought to . . ." he muttered, knowing that his evasion was practically consent, and he gestured at the door.

Thomas chuckled dryly and looked at his lap, obviously aware that Wilson had evaded for a reason. "Don't forget your pager."

* * *

Yyyyyeah I almost didn't post this story because of this chapter. I get irrationally nervous sometimes.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

House had never been a very patient man. He knew that PET scans took time which was why he hated using them, but he needed to make sure the shadows were tumours and not scar tissue. Were he a religious man, he would've prayed for scar tissue, but he wasn't and so he didn't. Besides, he knew damn well what Thomas had. If anything, the PET scan really was a waste of time-but perhaps they could see what grade of tumour it was and its state of malignancy.

When it was eleven-fifteen and he hadn't seen Wilson step into his office, he paged him to see if the PET scan was finished. He didn't reply which was odd, seeing as a PET scan shouldn't have prevented him from paging something back. When Chase walked into the differential diagnosis room a few minutes later and Wilson still hadn't walked into his office, House paged him a second time and there was no answer.

He grabbed his cane and stuck his head into the diagnosis room. "Where the hell's Wilson?" he barked at Chase sharply.

Chase shifted awkwardly in his seat. "Er, I . . . he said he was taking the patient to his room."

House scoffed and then limped into the hallway, cane ticking noisily against the floor. He should've figured Wilson would generously wheel the psychotic Jew-killing bastard to his room. All right, so maybe Thomas didn't really believe in that crap, but that didn't change the fact he lived with those who did and he had marked himself up to prove his loyalty; who was to say he wouldn't do something else, too?

The elevator ride was silent and empty, and he waited for it to stop at the floor. When it did he hurried out and into the hallway, his uneven gait pronounced because of his hastiness, and he barrelled right into somebody as he turned the corner.

Luckily, that person was Wilson. "You're a moron," he snapped as soon as he stepped away and righted his balance.

Wilson blinked rapidly and stared at him, eyes wider and skin a shade paler than it should've been. "What? I-sorry, I didn't see you-"

"You took Nazi Guy to his room. Do you _want _to be slapped around and stuffed into an oven?"

"Oh God House, really? He is _not_ going to hurt me," he murmured with an eye-roll, hurrying past him and heading, head lowered slightly, to the elevator.

House followed. "He could have."

"He very clearly didn't."

"Are you so much of a martyr that you _want_ to be-"

"House, you and I both know TJ is completely harmless, all right? He isn't even a _Nazi_ for God's sake."

"What?" blurted House in confusion as they stepped into the elevator together.

Wilson sighed and rolled his eyes. "He fell in love with that Jewish girl and he clearly doesn't believe in-"

"No, what did you call him?"

Wilson opened his mouth and stared at House as if he'd said something ridiculous, then frowned and tilted his head. "Oh, um . . . TJ." He rubbed the backed of his neck and looked away.

House scowled at the icky feeling of sentimentality that reared in his chest. "That's just . . . God, you're sick. Calling a _Nazi_ a term of endearment? Wow. I mean, I know you're screwed up, but that's just beyond pathetic."

"Well, I thought Mister Orange was tacky," he brushed off with a shrug and glanced at House, who was still scowling at him. "Look, he thinks he's dying-he opened up to me. Wants a . . . level of closeness that he apparently isn't getting from his family."

"His own _wife_ doesn't call him that."

"And he clearly has the perfect relationship with her," Wilson grumbled.

Wilson tapped his fingers against his leg and bounced on his heels, eyes resolutely ahead of him. Clearly he wanted out of the elevator. Or at least away from House. "Where are you hurrying off to? A sale on toenail polish in the lobby?"

"I wanted to get in a few clinic patients before lunch," Wilson uttered as the elevator shuddered to a stop.

"You're avoiding me," House accused sharply. Wilson slipped out of the elevator as soon as the doors slid open enough to allow him to leave, but House pushed after him. "You didn't answer my pages, and you're running away from me-what the hell is this?" he demanded, falling into step beside his friend.

"It's-nothing, House. I'm just-I have clinic duty."

Since he was slightly behind him, he moved his cane into his other hand and grabbed Wilson's left with his right and tugged, perhaps a bit harder than he'd intended. Wilson winced and hissed a bit through his teeth before facing House. "For the past few days you've been . . . What's wrong with you?"

Wilson pulled his wrist free and worked it, but he didn't step away. The hustle and bustle of nurses continued on around them, used to House and Wilson getting into discussions too close to each other in the middle of clinic by now. "I'm not acting strange. Unlike some people, I actually do my job so-"

"And unlike some people, I don't get chummy with lying, prejudicial bastards and call them TJ."

"Oh, right, of course. I forgot that the great Gregory House is immune to emotions such as compassion or-or actual concern for a man who could possibly be dying," he growled and then turned away, storming towards the counter and pulling a folder free.

A snappy Wilson was a fun-free Wilson, which annoyed House greatly. However, Wilson usually only got snappy with one subject-losing people. So either he was losing someone currently, or like with Danny, had just found someone he had previously lost. Both could apply to House. Seeing as House really didn't care much for the dramatic storm out, unless he was the one doing the storming, he followed Wilson and limped in front of him, blocking his path.

"You're afraid of losing me," he stated, narrowing his eyes in Wilson's direction. "I just dumped Cuddy, but one of us is still involved with a screeching harpy. That's why you've been . . . weird lately."

"Weird? I haven't been-"

"You've been flirting with me."

Wilson opened his mouth to deny it, but faltered. His eyes flicked to a nearby nurse who had heard that part of their conversation and stared at them with an eyebrow raised before hurrying off. He blinked rapidly and stared at House's tie-less chest, then back up at his face, mouth working slightly. "Wha-no, no I haven't, I haven't been-"

"Yes you have," he snapped.

He looked around himself and stepped closer. "You want to discuss this _now?"_ he whispered harshly, eyes ticking to all the nearby patrons.

"I really don't care where we discuss this," he admitted coldly, eyes still on Wilson although Wilson wasn't really looking at him except for brief split seconds.

Wilson pinched his lips together into a wry smile, then looked at the ground and shook his head, the hand not clutching a folder rubbing his nose for a second. He looked at House finally and dropped his hand, letting out a dry, breathy chuckle. "You're an asshole."

"I embrace that fact."

"I don't . . . mean . . . I don't flirt with you more than usual," he muttered quietly.

"Admitting that you do, in fact, flirt with me."

"You flirt back," he accused. House shrugged and Wilson let out a huff of annoyed air. "We always-before-I just . . . I just miss how we used to be. Before."

"You mean, before you kicked me out of the loft to make room for your girlfriend?"

Wilson blinked once, then nodded a little. "Yeah," he relented sadly. "Look, I really ought to . . . see this patient."

House didn't move, but Wilson didn't walk around him, either. They stared at each other in the crowded clinic, and House had no idea as to what they'd just admitted, other than the flirting. Which actually didn't have to mean much of anything at all. Or maybe it did and he'd just conditioned himself into thinking it was harmless because if it wasn't and Wilson still rejected him . . .

House finally nodded and stepped aside, allowing Wilson to pass. He did so without another word and House turned to watch him slip into the exam room, still working his left wrist awkwardly.

* * *

Noisy chattering and the clanging of forks scraping against plates surrounded them. Their elbows knocked as House piled up his plate, Wilson doing the same (although with less gusto and a bit more conscientious in his decisions) and House found himself watching his profile as Wilson bit his lip and deliberated taking a pudding cup.

"It's just pudding," House pointed out and nudged Wilson's arm with his elbow.

Wilson glanced at him. "Well, Sam . . . wants me to eat a little healthier."

House laughed harshly. "Seriously? She thinks _you_ need to eat healthier? Christ, you're two steps short from eating like a chick. I really doubt a cup of pudding is going to give you a heart attack."

Wilson chuckled and grabbed the pudding cup. "Well, she's a bit of a health nut."

"One of her many flaws." Wilson chuckled louder and then gave him a sidelong glance, the small smile on his face genuine. House smirked back at him. "Is she gonna be happy with the fact you didn't wait for her to buy a plate?"

"She's bringing her own food," he explained, then forked over the cash for both his and House's plate.

House waited until Wilson grabbed his change before limping towards an empty table. They sat across from each other, and House stole a fry, taking a large bite out of it. He grimaced. "Unsalted? What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Watching my cholesterol," he muttered.

"Remember that little thing called testosterone? You're losing it."

Wilson laughed and grabbed the salt shaker, shaking it over his plain fries although his eyes remained on House, smiling enough to show his teeth. House couldn't deny that Wilson's objectively nice mouth was even better when curled into a smile. The shaker clinked to the table and they kept their gazes locked and House realized he was smiling in return. He quickly turned it into more of a smirk. Wilson's faded from his face smoothly but an odd gleam remained in his dark eyes.

He felt her presence before he heard her voice, and it soured his mood immediately. "James, Greg," Sam greeted, that sickly sweet tone overly-friendly for a greeting.

Wilson turned to her and smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. Sam bent down and gave him what must've been an unprecedented kiss because Wilson looked shocked. The kiss was possessive and just a tad on the side of too long for a brief hello, and House felt something cold and harsh rear up in his chest-it was a feeling not unlike jealousy.

Wilson couldn't meet his eyes afterwards and looked at his plate; Sam looked right at him and smirked.

House glared, narrowing his eyes and scowling until she was settled in her chair, placing two Tupperware containers in front of her and a bottle of water. One held salad and when she removed the lid, House recognized the scent of vinaigrette dressing from the last two months with Cuddy.

"Did you two have fun last night?" Sam asked with a bite of disappointment behind her forced smile.

"Oh, only a little too much," House answered and then bypassed his own plate to steal one of Wilson's fries.

Sam didn't look very pleased with his answer, and pursed her lips and regarded her salad, producing a fork she must've brought with her. "That's sounds interesting. Tell me, how did she end it? James didn't specify." She stared at House innocently and her tone only held a tinge of annoyance; she sounded as if she were genuinely curious.

Wilson glared at Sam but only House noticed. House shrugged nonchalantly despite his sudden irritation. "I actually broke up with her."

Sam blinked in surprise. "Oh. Um, why is that?"

"She got a little too dependent on her riding crop," he brushed off casually. Sam's expression fell flat and she pursed her lips, taking a small bite of her salad. House figured that explaining why might be more useful than he expected; maybe it would get Sam to realize she wasn't so different than Cuddy in the department of being completely wrong for her boyfriend. "She was turning me into someone I'm not."

"Maybe you needed to change."

"Or maybe love should be about acceptance. Pass the ketchup."

Although the ketchup was closer to Sam, who was sitting beside Wilson but because the table was round she was sitting in the middle, Wilson grabbed it and handed it to House.

"And how was she changing you? By making you shave and actually put forth a little effort in your appearance?" Snide replaced forced innocent curiosity, and Wilson gave her a warning glare she either didn't see or ignored.

"Well, there is that, and the whole asking me to be a completely different man and actually taking cases that I have no interest in. I never would've taken Thomas Mueller's case if she hadn't insisted. But I guess I lucked out on that one, 'cause what isn't interesting about a Nazi dying of cancer? Personally, I'll think it's hilarious to see him shrivelled up and dying. Some call it poetic justice . . . I just call it 'dark humour.'"

House opened the bottle and squeezed a liberal amount of ketchup on the side of his plate and then stole another fry from Wilson. It wasn't until he'd dipped it in his mountain of ketchup that he noticed Wilson had face-palmed.

The silence that loomed over the table was suddenly awkward, although he wasn't really all that upset over Sam keeping her trap shut. However, Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose and pulled his lips back in a grimace, and Sam stared at him, her scowl directed towards her boyfriend.

Sam stood up and stormed away from the table, leaving her Tupperware containers and fork behind.

"Huh. Since when did belittling Nazis fall into the unfunny category? Are they taking the world back by storm and demanding equal treatment now? Next thing you know, we won't be able to make blonde jokes."

Wilson didn't respond, except to rub his face and then look heavenward. He stood away from the table and hurried after Sam, even going so far as to call her name.

House rolled his eyes-leave it to Wilson to go running after his emotionally sensitive girlfriend, sobbing because House dared hurt the poor little Nazi's feelings. Perhaps she didn't find jokes about people dying funny, but it wasn't House's business to coddle people's feelings.

He took Wilson's pudding cup, and tore off the tinfoil lid.

* * *

Of all the times for House to remember his patient's name, it had to be his ex-boyfriend? The one who had broken up his marriage? Perhaps he shouldn't have corrected him so many times when House called him Teddy or Terry or whatever. Sam hurried through the clinic, her blonde hair bouncing as she moved.

"Sam!" he called, his legs longer and stride a bit faster than hers. He stepped in front of her and she tried to walk around him, but he stood in front of her again, and he knew a few other doctors and nurses in the clinic were staring at him, but considering how often that happened (although usually it involved House) he wasn't all that embarrassed. "Sam, look, I can explain," he blurted.

"Explain what, James? How do you explain this to me? You know, I thought that I could trust you, but apparently-"

"I didn't lie to you; I just didn't . . ." A nearby clinic patient stared blatantly at them and a nurse he'd once dated was raising her eyebrows inquisitively at them. "Maybe we should take this somewhere private?" he suggested as Cuddy walked out of her office, glancing over at them, but she didn't appear so much as curious as just noticing them.

Sam scoffed and looked around. She folded her arms and pursed her lips, looked past him at the exit, and sighed. "Fine. We'll go to your office."

He nodded and then put his hand by her elbow, leading her towards the elevator as he would a patient. Dread filled his chest when the doors to the elevator slid behind them and the other occupant moved aside to give them room. Somehow, he knew this would end them, just like he knew ages ago that they wouldn't last-that they would inevitably fall apart just like the last time they were together; just like all of his other relationships, excluding the one he had with House.

Another failed relationship with a woman. He wondered if he would be able to keep up the lie after this, or if he'd just give up entirely. He thought of the consequences of both, and found neither pleasing. What would House think? He probably already suspected. He'd called him out on the flirting. Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose again and squeezed his eyes shut.

The door opened and he walked out, glancing into the differential diagnosis room. Nobody was in there; they were all probably getting lunch. House was probably stealing his and throwing Sam's in the garbage.

He opened the door for Sam and followed her in. As soon as the door clicked behind him, it was like he turned on a switch.

She spun to him. "You should have told me."

"I-I wanted to. I almost . . ." And he almost had. He'd tried to gather the courage to tell her that House had Thomas as a patient. He'd even gathered up the courage and almost blurted it to her in the bathroom, but then he . . . panicked. "It's nothing, Sam. I promise."

"No, it _is_ something, James. You had an affair with him," she stated. She raised her voice a little, but she wasn't yelling yet. She just folded her arms and scrunched her shoulders, as if trying to withdraw within herself. "You were going to leave me for him. Now he's here and you expect me to just . . . The fact you didn't tell me means it _does_ mean something."

"I knew you'd get upset."

"Of course I would. But hiding it? That's worse. It means you . . . James, I tried. I tried so hard to believe you. That it was . . . just a phase or-or that you were acting out as some sort of . . . college experimentation. That you weren't into men, but . . . I see the way you are with House, and-"

"Whoa, whoa, wait-House has nothing to do with this. House and I have never . . . We're just friends. We've never done anything."

"I believe that. What I don't believe is that you don't want to." Wilson didn't deny it-at this point, she'd know it was a lie. "You weren't even going to tell me why you were gone, James. You just . . . packed up everything and went. Were you going to call and explain? Or just send the divorce papers?"

He remembered packing everything he owned while Sam had been away; everything he owned, stuffed into boxes in the trunk and in the backseat of his cheap car. He'd been packing for a week, but he'd started with the smaller things she wouldn't notice. Books, music, movies . . . And in one night, he'd packed up everything else that was necessary; his clothes, his toiletries-everything. All for him to spend all night waiting for Thomas, drinking coffee after coffee, until he'd passed out and woke the next day, sun blaring high and through the windshield, and Thomas was nowhere to be found. To be honest, he'd spent hours ruminating over what to tell Sam-that he'd left her for a man or a woman, or just disappear and send her the divorce papers once he and Thomas had settled and never explain why. He hadn't figured it out then and he didn't know now, either.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly.

She paced away from him, then turned to face him again, more feet separating them as she wrapped her arms around her abdomen. "I tried so hard to trust you, James. And I couldn't. You were so-after he left, I couldn't even talk to you. And now you barely speak to me and I find out that Thomas is . . . You think I don't notice when you turn to look at the same guy I do when we're shopping? Or the way you stare at House . . . And now Thomas is here and you didn't tell me? What happened?"

"Nothing's happened," he lied, cheeks burning at a memory not more than an hour ago.

"Don't lie to me, James. It won't help you any."

He shifted his weight. "We kissed."

She nodded to herself, and he hated himself when he noticed that tears glistening underneath her lids. "This isn't going to work. As long as I'm around you'll-you'll keep lying to yourself and learn to resent me for it, just like last time."

"I didn't _resent_ you for any-"

"Oh please!" she shouted, voice breaking as tears burst forth and she flung one hand in the air angrily. "Every time I came home you-you just sat there! You didn't even _speak_ to me for months! Every time I even tried to talk you just stared at me with this-this _look_ in your eyes! Absolute contempt! You married me, _knowing_ you could never truly love-"

"You don't know that! I-I loved you, Sam!" he shouted back, throwing his hands in the air.

"I was your _beard! _That's all I ever was and that's all your other wives were, too! All the nurses and flings and women you slept with-who are you trying to fool? Me? Yourself? House? I tried to tell myself you were-confused, but-Why didn't you just _tell_ me? Why put me through all this heartbreak, James?"

"What did you want me to say?" he demanded in a half-growl. "That I loved and cared for you, but never as much as I could love and care for him because he's a man? Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want me to say?"

"Is it true?" she asked, wiping away her tears and voice still raised in anger.

He opened his mouth to say something but realized a moment later that he had nothing to say. He had cared for her, but what he'd felt for Thomas had been all-consuming and real; what he'd felt for her hadn't even compared. It would never compare to what he felt for House, no matter how much he wanted it to. No matter how many times he tried to replace what he felt with something more conventional, no matter how many women he grew to care for . . . It wasn't the same; it just wasn't _right._

"I'm sorry," he muttered so quietly he didn't know if he'd said it out loud or if he had if she'd be able to hear it.

"Me, too," she mumbled, sniffing loudly and breath hitching in her throat. Her tears streamed freely now, and she brushed away her tears again. Sickening guilt built up in his chest and stomach; sludgy, black guilt that made him regret ever asking her on the date and evading Thirteen's remark on how he clearly repressed his lifestyle for House and how he'd turned it around to be about Sam, although he'd caught the hint at his ambiguous sexuality. He hated himself for trying to deny what he was; he was no better than House's gay patient, marrying a woman because he had to in order to prove something to society.

He'd never even admitted it to himself, except for in the middle of the night moments before sleep, or when alcohol befuddled his brain and he couldn't stop himself from thinking those thoughts. It might not have been so bad had Thomas not betrayed him; shown him love and then disappeared. It might not have been so horrible if he hadn't fallen in love with his best friend, being unconsciously teased for years. Had he not tried to push those feelings aside with Bonnie and Julie and Grace . . . even Amber. Amber had been the closest thing to love for a woman he'd ever felt and he had no illusions as to why; it only made him feel worse knowing that he'd never loved her as much as she deserved, although he had cared for her. She'd died believing his lie, and as much as he'd tried to tell himself he believed it too, he never had. Not really.

"You're not the only person who lies, James. I knew it, but . . . God, I wanted you to love me. Wanted to believe that you could, so I . . ." She sniffed haltingly, then rubbed her palms along her cheeks. "I'll be gone tonight," she whispered, then moved to walk past him.

For a moment he almost told her, simply because by then it was his conditioned response-he didn't really mean it-that no, it was fine; she didn't have to move out. But he realized with a jolt that she did. He wasn't in love with her any more than he had been years ago-maybe even less so-and it was his loft. Well, his and House's loft.

It felt like there was something else he needed to say; an apology or maybe begging. Perhaps a goodbye. Something felt unfinished, the nagging impression he'd forgotten something boiling in the back of his mind. But he didn't say anything; he couldn't think of anything that wouldn't be trite or Pavlovian. He just cleared his throat and stepped aside, allowing her to leave, and the door clicked behind him.

* * *

Wilson's lunch had been delicious, as per usual, and Sam's had been pretty tossed inside a bin and splattered against the other uneaten bits of food. Which, speaking of Wilson and Sam, she'd stormed off because of his little harsh mocking of Nazi Guy and Wilson went rushing after her, probably to apologize for House being an asshole. House was actually used to those types of scenarios. The handful of times he'd had dinner with Bonnie or Julie had ended in pretty much the same way. Except those times, he'd actually gone out of his way to offend them.

She was probably more upset at the fact he and Wilson had spent the night together than the comment.

He'd played his PSP for awhile, but that grew tiring quickly and the internet proved just as uninteresting, so he'd decided to pop into Wilson's office for a chat.

He'd wanted to either interrupt their argument or eavesdrop, however when he'd walked into Wilson's office he hadn't been there so he'd gone down to the clinic. Curious as ever, and more than a little bored since Thomas was soon to be on someone else's caseload, he'd decided that bugging Wilson and being a bad influence by convincing him to skip clinic duty to watch _Prescription Palace_ sounded like fun.

Luckily, as he limped towards the clinic he watched Wilson leave an exam room, smiling politely at some buxom blonde with a child in tow. House furrowed his eyebrows in distaste and then limped faster. Wilson caught his eyes and heaved his shoulders dramatically with an over-done sigh, and walked towards the counter to retrieve a new folder.

House intercepted halfway there, stepping in front of him, and then blocking his path two more times as he tried to move around him. "I'm bored," House stated.

"And I'm busy."

"You already did clinic hours."

Wilson let out a resigned sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Hour. Singular."

"You didn't even bother coming back for your food."

"Well, I know you would've eaten it by the time I returned, so I figured it would be pointless. I hope you enjoyed the pudding."

"Thoroughly. So, where's Sam? Crying in the little ladies' room, or did you at least wait until she left the hospital to start dropping the moves on Buxom Clinic Patient Number Three?"

Wilson frowned and looked at House as if he didn't understand what he was saying, then glanced back at the leaving mother with the cutesy-wutesy hellion devil spawn following. She glanced over her shoulder at Wilson and smiled flirtatiously and waved with her fingers. Wilson blanched and reared his head back, then looked over at House, who just smirked at him.

"Okay, I was _not _flirting with her," Wilson denied.

"Oh, you so were. As long as dear ol' Sam didn't catch you at it," House shrugged, glaring at the woman's very attractive backside.

"Um . . . Sam and I . . ." Wilson began haltingly and House turned to face him again, feeling strangely excited. Actually, that wasn't strange at all. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was going. Wilson rubbed his forehead awkwardly.

House waited for him to finish for several lengthy seconds. When it was clear Wilson wasn't going to speak anytime soon, he smirked. "Told you so," he boasted.

Wilson didn't glare or even scoff. He just smiled sadly and rubbed the back of his neck, eyes fixed on House's tie-less chest, as if afraid to look upward. "Yeah," he agreed, then lowered his hand, eyes flitting upwards and locking with House's a few seconds before he tilted his chin up as well, as if he were steeling himself for something. His cheeks pinkened. "House, um . . ."

House frowned, getting the feeling that something was amiss. Sam had broken up with Wilson, but surely he wouldn't need to crash at his place-the loft was his. He hadn't given it to Sam, had he? Wilson visibly swallowed and something twisted in House's chest; something that almost ached, but not unpleasantly. Wilson's pupils dilated enough for House to see and something about his expression reminded him of a young child who knew he was going to get in trouble.

"Wilson?" House urged quietly, shifting half a step closer.

"House, I'm Chase."

"What?" House frowned at him in confusion, then heard the approaching footsteps at his side. Right. Chase was coming. He turned to face the blonde fellow. "Ah, the prettiest duckling," he greeted, and Chase glared at him.

"Not cancer," he replied. House frowned. "It's just scar tissue, apparently. The chances the scars are causing the symptoms are highly unlikely, what, since they only presented recently."

House's mind blipped away from whatever was going on with Wilson, who just cleared his throat and milled away. Chase and House started walking towards the elevator simultaneously, but House did chance a glance over his shoulder and at Wilson, who busied himself with grabbing another folder.

He faced the elevator again as they pushed towards it, his pace slightly faster than Chase's. "I got them to look at it right away. They know your cases tend to take precedence-or, well, you send them elephant faeces in a bag-"

"I didn't send that to pathology," House insisted.

"Well, wherever you sent it," Chase muttered with an eye-roll. "In any case, it isn't cancer. We could search his home again-I don't know, maybe her garden did have pesticides. We didn't find any mould, but maybe we missed something."

House bit his lip, then shook his head. "If it were environmental, his wife and son would be having symptoms."

"That's what I thought too, so I ordered up more medical history. Thomas has only been to the doctor a few times. Nothing sinister, really. A few colds, dehydration . . . I guess a few years ago he thought he was having a heart attack but it was just a panic attack. The wife had pneumonia earlier this year, and she had strep throat sometime in early November. She told us she hadn't been sick for years, but thankfully her son seems capable of being honest for more than ten seconds at a time."

House nodded to concede. "Did they put her on penicillin?"

"Er, yes. Well, amoxicillin for the strep throat, but-"

"She could've treated herself for neurosyphilis."

Chase stared at him blankly. "She'd have to be taking quite a bit, and she'd probably end up having the take the full dosage. Nobody keeps taking medicine once they get better."

"Well, her husband _did_ go to medical school," House mocked with an eye-roll as he pressed the call button. "It's a long shot, but, well, I thrive on them."

"Thought you'd be more excited that he didn't have cancer," Chase revealed. House wasn't excited per se, but he wouldn't deny he was glad of that fact. He didn't say anything about that as the doors opened, though. "Wilson's probably not all disappointed, either. I mean, he didn't even seem like he believed the guy. He poured his soul out to us and Wilson shrugged it off. Said it was a nice story but just . . . I dunno, acted indifferent."

They stepped into the elevator. "He poured out his soul and Wilson just sat there?" he asked in disbelief.

"Well, he just went on about that girl he fell in love with. Said she was funny, gorgeous, somewhat of an altruist. She went to homeless shelters and all that." Chase shrugged and House frowned. "You want me to put him on penicillin?"

House furrowed his brows as he hit the floor number he needed. Something in the back of his mind whirred again, like perhaps he'd forgotten to turn off the oven or he'd left the fridge door open. The fact Thomas didn't have cancer bothered him slightly, but less so than the idea he would've been put on Wilson's caseload. Alas, that meant he had no idea what Thomas had, but the neurosyphilis diagnosis looked brighter than it had.

"Pump him full of it and take a blood test to see how advanced it is," he ordered, tapping his cane against the elevator floor. Chase nodded at him and House tilted his head to the side. "Do you know if the son is coming to visit?"

Chase shrugged. "Dunno. I'd wager he'll be here sometime around four. Takes awhile to get here from the school."

House nodded to himself, resigned to the fact he wasn't going to get anything truthful from Thomas or the wife. "Tell me when he gets here."

* * *

I know it's still technically Saturday, but I have to work hella early tomorrow and so I figured a little before Sunday morn couldn't hurt.

Also, MilitantDelusionalist from made a fanvid to this fanfic!

Just remove the spaces and replace (dot) with a .

Here it is: http : / www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=WcbZWDvAfXM


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Although Wilson was currently busy calmly explaining to a married couple why the man couldn't use Viagra without risking a heart attack, he felt jittery with anxiety as he replayed his almost coming out to House over and over in his mind. What had he been thinking? Coming out to House in the clinic? He wished he could've blamed it on random impulsiveness except that he'd been thinking of telling House since he'd kissed Thomas; actually, were he to be honest, he thought about it obsessively a few times before. How he would do it, where it would happen . . . But he'd never seriously considered until recently. Today he hadn't been able to get it off of his mind; ever since House had called him out on flirting with him, he'd wanted to just do it. He could feel it bubbling under the surface, ready to burst forth at any moment.

With Thomas as House's patient, Sam recently leaving him, and House's just-as-recent singledom, everything seemed to be going so quickly, and now that House had mentioned their flirtations he was just a step behind realizing it for himself. He'd rather have House hear it from him instead of Thomas or Sam or just figuring it out and ambushing him. He wasn't sure how House would react; he doubted he would run away screaming or cut Wilson out of his life, but he didn't want to hope for reciprocation.

The married couple left, the man threatening to go get another opinion and Wilson, as nicely as he could, told him that it wouldn't matter since that doctor's opinion would reflect his own, but thanked them and wished them luck anyway, and stepped out of the clinic room. Normally working clinic cleared his mind for the time being, but then again, he'd never considered admitting to his best friend something he'd never even verbally said to himself.

Although he and Thomas had been together for almost a full year, they'd never discussed sexuality. They were a couple, they said they loved each other and had sex and cuddled and did everything together, but they'd never given a name to what they had. They never even referred to each other as boyfriends until they'd decided to run away together like some sort of teenaged fantasy. And he was going to tell House and then what? What would happen?

"Wilson," Cuddy called and he turned to her. Although she looked as professional as always, her skirt was longer, her colours darker, and although she obviously had makeup on, the bags under her eyes were just visible enough to notice.

He cleared his throat and felt a nervous shift in his stomach. He walked over to her and smiled politely. "Yes?"

"May I speak with you in my office for a moment?" she asked, nothing but professionalism in her tone. No friendliness, no hint of familiarity . . .

He smiled genially. "Of course."

He followed Cuddy to her office and waited until she was seated to sit in the chair opposite her. They remained quiet for a few moments while she rearranged some paperwork on her desk and he kept his face trained on hers, making sure to look interested.

"I wanted to discuss Thomas Mueller with you," she opened finally, sounding completely detached from him emotionally; like his boss, not a friend. They used to have lunch every Tuesday and although most of their conversations were somehow caused by House (either by just discussing him or something he'd done) they'd had their own conversations a few times as well.

"What about him did you want to discuss?"

"I heard he could possibly have cancer and it's . . . come to my attention he's also a Nazi. I understand if that would make you uncomfortable and if you want to have someone else take care of his case, I wouldn't blame you," she said calmly and politely.

He sighed. "First, he turned out not the have cancer and second, even if he did, I wouldn't deny him treatment. Besides, he wouldn't hurt me."

"Perhaps not physically, but if he were to file a complaint . . ."

"He won't. Trust me," he insisted firmly with a raised palm, as if warding off any more warnings.

She looked as if she wanted to continue, but then she nodded slowly. With a sigh, she slouched the tiniest bit and lost some of that professional, detached edge, looking very much like a worn woman. "I never meant to put a strain on your relationship with House," she admitted ruefully, and suddenly she looked much older than she really was.

Not really understanding the subject shift, Wilson cleared his throat and frowned. At least they weren't on the subject of Thomas. "It's not your fault we . . . drifted. We were both busy and-it's not your fault."

"I was never threatened by you. I want you to know that. I never wanted him to choose me over you or anything like that. It just . . . It did happen, and maybe I subconsciously . . . I don't know. I just feel like if I hadn't wanted it, I would've stopped it when I noticed you two were . . . But I didn't. And I don't want you to be angry with me because of it."

Wilson frowned. "I was never angry."

"But you were disappointed," she pushed, giving him a knowing look. "I must've wanted what you two had if I . . . I went to you for help. I cooked him _your_ pancakes. I was angry when he refused to eat them and . . ." She rubbed her forehead, effectively blocking her eyes form his. "Is it just coincidence he broke up with me after you two started . . . rekindling your-friendship?" She hesitated on the final word as if she'd meant to say something else instead.

"You mean, did I break you two up?" he translated. She remained silent. He swallowed. "I . . . may have suggested that you were trying to change him and maybe . . . voiced my displeasure. Tactfully," he added quickly, hating himself for his honesty, but he knew she would've seen through his lie, and it wouldn't have helped her. She needed the truth.

She sighed, but didn't remove her hand. "You tried to warn me." She removed her hand, and he saw that her eyes were tinged red. "And you're right. I was . . . changing him. I saw a man he could be-and he told me he-he was unhappy; I just wanted to help, but . . . You're right, Wilson. And so was he. 'This is the only me you get,'" she quoted, but Wilson wasn't familiar with it so it must've been something between them.

Wilson shifted uncomfortably, not really pleased with the conversation at hand. "Perhaps you should be discussing this with House . . . ?"

She shook her head. "I don't . . . want to see him just now," she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. "God, I'm like a teenaged girl who didn't go to prom. Guh, I feel so stupid," she babbled, wiping underneath her eyes, and Wilson wondered if there was some reason why people had been prone to start crying around him today.

"You can't help how you feel," he soothed.

She nodded and swallowed visibly. "You're a good friend. House is very lucky." She smiled, then blinked. "And Sam, too," she added as an afterthought, although did well at making it sound as if she hadn't forgotten.

He didn't even consider explaining that she'd dumped him after lunch. Too many important (at least, they felt important) events had happened in the past few days. Life with House had always coincided with having to adjust quickly, but he didn't want to spring news of another failed relationship or make Cuddy feel he was grabbing all of the attention.

When the silence stretched on for a second longer than what was comfortable, Wilson smiled. "Thanks for your concern over Thomas," he stated.

"Of course," she said, catching on to his evasion and by the genuine smile on her face, probably grateful for it. "If at any time he makes you uncomfortable, or his family, don't hesitate to tell me."

"Even if he were on my caseload, there would be no issues."

She nodded at him, and Wilson cleared his throat with a sigh, pushing out of the chair. "Well, I ought to get back to work," he said, in the same tone he used on the phone with his mother when he told her he'd better let her go when he didn't want to talk anymore but didn't want to sound rude.

She caught on. "Of course. I'm sorry for being overly-cautious with Thomas," she said, but he knew she was apologizing for their other discussion.

He was halfway out the door when he turned back to look at her-she was rearranging papers on her desk again, the almost-golden glow from the sunlight streaming through the blinds in her office surrounding her. She looked small in her large office; alone. Once again, he felt guilt of his inappropriate relief when House had told him he'd ended it.

He considered coming out to her; not because he felt an overwhelming desire to explain anything to her, but because it was just under the surface, trying to get out so forcefully it almost didn't matter who heard it. However, he wanted House to be the first to hear the words, so he turned around and left.

* * *

After Chase had taken the blood tests where they needed to go and given Thomas penicillin, he'd returned to the room. Seeing as the medicine was being administered and he'd already taken the blood to be tested, and even told Thomas what they'd been testing and treating him for, there really was no reason for him to be sitting there other than the fact he was waiting for Nathaniel.

"Do I have it?" Thomas asked warily, shifting on the bed awkwardly.

"Well, I just gave it to them. We won't know for a bit."

"I honestly don't know how I could . . . not know I had syphilis," Thomas muttered. Chase shrugged and sat in the chair nearest his bed. "God, what you must think of me," he muttered, looking at his lap instead of Chase.

"Why, 'cause you cheat on your wife?" Chase snorted and shook his head. "You're not the first. Trust me."

"I'm safe," Thomas promised. "I always have protection, I never just . . . _do_ it."

"You always sober?" Chase countered.

Thomas frowned. "Okay, that's a . . . point." He shifted on the bed and sighed. "I never really loved my wife. I . . . I hate her," he admitted quietly, and the words hit Chase in the stomach for some reason; it twisted his innards and leaked into his chest. "I was just lonely. So lonely and she was there and just what my family would-would want; just what I was supposed to . . . want. It had been a long time since I'd been with anyone; even longer since I'd been with someone my family knew about, and-and then she was pregnant and I-" He let out a huff of air.

Chase looked around the hospital room awkwardly, deciding that he really didn't want to listen to this right now. Sure, he knew he was upset with his life but hating his wife? As much sense as it made it still unnerved him.

"You know how when men talk about when they hold their newborn child for the first time? How their world changes and it's this moment imprinted forever in time? I didn't feel that. I just felt . . . sick. I never wanted Nathaniel. When she had those miscarriages I was . . . _glad._ I didn't want to put a kid in this world and . . . brainwash him the way I was brainwashed. But I did, and I hate that I did, and I hate him. I hate my own son, for God's sake," he managed, sounding a bit choked and he clenched his jaw angrily. "I've never told anybody that."

"Look, I'm sure you don't _hate-"_

"I'm not looking for pity," he interrupted and Chase shut his mouth. "I know I-I chose this. We were going to run away together, you know? We were supposed to meet at this hotel, in the parking lot, and I showed up and I saw-I saw her, in the car, drinking coffee and . . . there were boxes all over in the backseat and the light from the hotel sign shone on her face and-and she was gorgeous and young and . . . I just realized that if my family ever found out-ever saw-it would be like Justine Seyfield all over again, and I couldn't do that. Not to her, so I . . . I left."

Chase furrowed his brows and really wished he could think of something to say, but nothing came to mind.

"I haven't been able to talk about any of this to anybody for twenty years. So I'm-I guess I just need it off of my chest. I'm just _so_ stressed, all the time, and I buy stress toys and books and-and I drink tea and meditate and it doesn't . . . Every day it's just this . . . never-ending struggle and I can't even look at my family without getting sick and just hating everything about where I am and I know I could've run off and . . . disappeared. People disappear all the time. But I didn't, and now . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't be unloading on you."

Chase looked around the room as if afraid someone would overhear them. "You could always leave them now," he suggested quietly.

Thomas looked at him and his expression melted into something softer and his eyes widened, as if that idea had never occurred to him. "Huh," he muttered, then looked away, pale eyebrows knitted closely in thought.

Chase swallowed the dry lump in his throat. "Well, uh . . . So . . . Do you have hobbies?" he asked, ungracefully switching the subject. He doubted there was anything he could say that would comfort him.

Thomas smiled at him and then chuckled airily. "I like tennis."

* * *

House sat facing the white board, cane pressed against his mouth, and one hand dipping into his thigh briefly as he contemplated the symptoms, the strong black etched across the white memorized by now but he couldn't tear his eyes away. Small, brief seconds of the past few days flitted through his mind as if trying to coax the answer free with no regard as to what was important and what wasn't. He couldn't tell the difference at this point anyway-anything could be the trigger that made it all click because in all honesty he doubted it was neurosyphilis but at the moment it was all he had.

He thought of the black tattoo against his skin, Thomas' lies, the tie Wilson bought him, Thomas' wife's purse being upended, the fact he'd told Chase that his precious love had enjoyed going to homeless shelters, the thin scar on Thomas' head, Nathaniel's scabbed knuckles and improperly fixed broken nose, Thomas laughing hysterically and then seizing in the hall outside his and Wilson's office, Thomas getting anxious around the needle right before Wilson had taken his blood and how Wilson had put his hand on his shoulder comfortingly . . .

He thought about Wilson apparently not being moved by Thomas' story, and yet believing him enough to be alone with him. He thought about wanting to push him against his desk yesterday and kiss him senseless and even of their closeness in the elevator. He thought of Wilson trying to talk to him in the clinic . . .

House wasn't a moron. He'd been aware of the tangible something between him and Wilson for years. It went beyond joking flirtations and buddy-buddy conversations. However, every time it seemed like something would come of it, nothing happened. After Bonnie, although House had still been devastated by Stacy's departure, he'd noticed it. Of course he'd been initially attracted to Wilson since he was hot, but he'd also noticed the divorce papers and after that he'd met Stacy and he'd loved her. Still, though, after Wilson had left Bonnie and stayed with House, both of them needing the other, he'd noticed Wilson's dependence was just as strong and House's. Wilson had put a soothing hand on his back a few too many times when House actually hadn't needed any comfort, or maybe he had smiled at something he'd said with a soft gleam in his eye, but somehow it just clicked for House. Either way, it seemed as though as soon as House noticed it, Wilson had conveniently found a new girlfriend, so he'd managed to blame it on the drugs and his loneliness.

After that, the cold, and obviously doomed, marriage with Julie happened, and then he'd moved in only to move out as soon as they started getting to that line of too-close, sleeping with the first needy dying woman who would take him, as if he'd been looking for an excuse to get out.

Then Tritter, and Amber, and then after Wilson had returned after House's father died, it seemed like even though he'd come back, there was a level of closeness they'd lost; a sort of nigh detachment where they weren't quite on the same frequency. It had bothered him, but it had returned eventually.

But once again, as soon as they slipped into something that seemed to be nearing something more than platonic, Wilson ran off. With his first wife, of all people.

Could House be blamed for never just pushing the boundaries and making Wilson accept that there was something else between them other than friendship? Every time he tried, Wilson ran away, either to Grace or with Amber or Sam. House had gotten so close too when he'd found out about Amber-even going so far as to give a flashing gaze, willing Wilson to see what he'd never say. Hell, House had told him he _loved_ him for Christ's sake, and still, nothing.

He worried about it being just one-sided tension plenty of times and maybe Wilson ran because he saw something he couldn't reciprocate. Or maybe he ran because he was scared of that fact he did. The latter was starting to become more likely-he'd admitted to flirting with him. It wasn't unconscious. He knew.

Recently, they'd pushed the lines again, but how far would House be able to take it before Wilson, once again, ran away?

He shook his head and focused back on Thomas and his family; thinking of his relationship with Wilson wouldn't help matters any. He tried to think of any small clue that might make him figure out what he had. Neurosyphilis was his only idea at the present time, but it didn't have the right feel. Something about the whole situation was off; he didn't understand something and there was a puzzle left unanswered-he could feel it.

He heard the door open and he got out of his chair to face Chase, who had his hands in his pockets. "Well?" House urged impatiently.

"Didn't learn anything. He hates his wife _and_ his son. Likes tennis, though, and sometimes he goes to homeless shelters and gives them blankets because . . . Well, to reminisce, I suppose."

"The kid?" Off Chase's look of confusion, House rolled his eyes and let out a huff. "Is he here yet?"

"Oh, right. Yeah, that's why I came up here. I just . . . I guess it just bothers me, you know. That he even hates his kid."

Were House anyone else, he probably would have been moved by that statement; felt bothered by the fact the Nazi hated his own child, except for that House did not believe that tripe about biological links that enforced love and caring. Family members were people, just like everyone else, so it really didn't bother him that Nazi guy hated his wife and son. He moved to leave the differential diagnosis room with Chase plopping into a chair, and House wondered briefly if Chase was thinking about his own father instead.

Halfway out the room, he looked at the back of Chase's head. "Thomas is not your father," he stated quickly, then left before he could see his expression.

* * *

Nathaniel sat in the visitor's chair and read his mother's _Mein Kampf. _It wasn't that he loved the book, despite it being interesting, but it was either that or the remaining waiting room magazines. If he wanted to read medical magazines he'd go home and read them. They had a few children's books and some craft magazines as well, but that sounded as fascinating as watching paint dry, so he settled with his mother's book.

His dad watched the television with only mild interest and the noise made it a little difficult to concentrate, but it wasn't a boring distraction at least. He figured if he couldn't read then he could watch TV with his dad.

House opened the door and glanced at Nathaniel. He put the book down and stood out of the chair and left the room to give House some privacy with his father, but House followed him. They made it several feet down the hall before Nathaniel cleared his throat and stared at him pointedly.

"_Mein Kampf,_ huh?" House greeted.

"Yeah. You ever read it?"

"In German," he boasted.

Nathaniel slowed to a stop in the middle of the hall. House continued walking but then stopped a few steps away to turn and look at him. There weren't many people nearby-there was a nurse walking away from them, but other than that, nobody was around. "Dude, so what's all this? Following me or what?"

House sighed, then took a step closer. "We're treating your dad for neurosyphilis but I highly doubt infected sores all over your dad's penis would escape his and your mother's attention long enough to infect his brain, and since you're the only one in your family who doesn't make a habit of lying to us, start talking."

Nathaniel frowned. "What, you mean you're treating my dad for a long shot?"

"You'd be surprised how often the long shots turn out to be the right one," he informed, but that didn't really make Nathaniel feel any better. "There's something I'm missing; something I know I'm not going to get from your dad or your mother."

"So what do you want to know? Anything you think might be relevant, man. I don't want him to die all over his pride, y'know?"

"Any vacations, any enemies-have you or your mother been experiencing symptoms? Anything."

"My dad doesn't really have enemies. He's pretty good at keeping his home life out of his work. You know, people there don't . . . know he's a Nazi. It's not relevant I guess. I don't know. My dad's too passive, my mom's too aggressive but you know it's the doers that get things done. He's not . . . really . . . Interesting." He shrugged and then rubbed the back of his head in thought. "Um, I guess he likes tennis. He goes to homeless shelters every now and then to like . . . I don't know, feed people. He gets drunk a lot, goes to bars, cheats on my mom . . . Uh, she got sick earlier this year; pneumonia, I think. She got better, though."

"Did she take _all_ of the prescribed medication?"

He scoffed. "Nah, she stopped taking it when she got better. I took the pills and sold 'em to some kids. They're idiots. They thought it was X." He chuckled darkly but then stopped when he saw House's expression.

"Your mother-does she know your father cheats on her? She could be poisoning him," he informed tactlessly.

"Dude! Ass!" he defended, glaring at him. "No, she doesn't know, and even if she did she's not a psycho!"

"You figured it out-who's to say she didn't?"

"Because I-look, man, she loves him, all right? And-well, I know he loves her and all that stuff, but-what we have works, you know? A mom, a dad, and-and obviously my dad knows it's not right otherwise he-he wouldn't be . . . Look. He gets home from . . . What, wherever he goes and sleeps around, and he takes a shower, and I take the clothes and wash them. What he does isn't right, but-but he raised me more than she ever did, and yeah, he's not perfect, but I ain't gonna ruin what works, okay?" He swallowed the lump in his throat and refused to look at House-his eyes were starting to water. "Tch, God. It's just-he drinks, I dunno, maybe it's just 'cause he's drunk but-there's never lipstick on the collar. He doesn't smell like perfume, but I don't recognize the cologne, you hear me?"

House blinked a few times. "Hmm," he hummed, brows furrowed in thought. "This doesn't bother you?"

Nathaniel looked at the floor. "It's not right. It's not . . . You know. Natural. I-I love my dad. I love him more than anything, y'know? I love him more than I hate . . . You know. Jews. Gays. Blacks. Whatever, it's-look, can we not-it's just. Whatever, man. He comes home to us," he muttered awkwardly, feeling the bile rise in his throat and he was aware that his voice was oddly raspy. He met House's eyes and tilted his chin higher and pulled his shoulder back a bit, straightening his posture. "Man, wh-why are we even . . . ? I thought that Jew guy was gonna treat him for cancer or whatever. Doctor Wilson."

House narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw. "Did your father tell you Wilson was Jewish?" he demanded, sounding pretty upset.

"What? No. My dad has medical magazines. Look, I don't-I don't think his . . . Y'know, preference has anything to do with his seizures or whatever, and I don't think the tennis does shit. I don't know what you're looking for."

"Medical magazines? What, they discuss the symptoms of The Jew now? That's how you pieced it together?" he snapped sarcastically.

"No, he's published articles. James Evan Wilson, right? His initials spell Jew. I remembered his name. Yeah, like all the magazines my dad has have an article of his. Like this one about balancing science and religion and how being open about your beliefs could-I don't know, bring hope to terminal cases. Look, I'm not gonna tell my mom, okay?" He shifted his weight awkwardly.

House tilted his head and his eyes ticked past Nathaniel as if staring at the wall behind him. "Homeless shelters?" he queried quietly, brows furrowed and irises moving as if he was reading something.

"Uh, yeah-what, you think he got something from them?"

House blinked rapidly and stepped back slightly, head lowered and brows furrowing deeper so that a line between them appeared. "Daniel," he stated as if it meant something.

"Nathaniel," he corrected, scowling at him.

House finally looked at him and scoffed. "Not you," he muttered, then turned around and limped towards his father's room.

Nathaniel stood there awkwardly, then headed in the direction of the vending machines.

* * *

It made so much sense House wasn't even surprised when it clicked. Wilson had proved to him ages ago he was capable of lying to him and getting away with it for awhile at least. Whenever Wilson did manage to pull the wool over his eyes, it left House sitting there realizing how obvious it had been and in its obviousness completely unnoticeable-like seeing the twist at the end of the movie and _knowing_ it made so much sense he couldn't believe he hadn't pieced it together halfway through.

Why he hadn't wanted to go with House to take the blood; why he'd suggested cancer within the first minute of House actually reading through the file-he knew Thomas' family history. Why he'd broken that rubber band, the not-quite-normal behaviour he'd just attributed to their strained friendship . . . Even why Thomas had packed everything up from Arizona and moved to New Jersey-not for House's diagnostic brilliance, but for Wilson. Thomas hadn't been on their floor to thank House, but to talk with Wilson and why he'd gotten so affronted when House made that joke about the Sheeney Curse. Why the comment about Wilson's initials had caused his euphoria-he'd know what they spelled, after all.

Wilson had lied and manipulated him plenty of times before but this-this wasn't just a few weeks worth of lies. This was a lie he'd managed to keep for their entire friendship. Was he gay? Bisexual? Homo- or hetero-flexible? House currently leaned more towards the Wilson being gay end of the spectrum, but he would have to investigate further and pry into Wilson's life a bit more. Or just characteristically tactlessly ask him.

He walked into Thomas' room to see him watching the television although he looked bored. He glanced at House and raised his head a bit in greeting. "Where's Nathaniel?"

"Selling coke to hookers," he answered and grabbed the remote, switching the television off.

"I was watching-"

"Don't care," he interrupted and tossed the remote onto a free chair.

Thomas glared at him and clenched his jaw, but didn't say whatever flitted into his head. "What did you talk about with my son?" he asked instead, aiming for kind and curious and the tone ended up remind House of Sam.

"Best places to score cheap blow," he said and narrowed his eyes. "You're an orthodontist. I take it that means you went to dental school."

"One would assume," Thomas agreed.

"But your supposed great love was in medical school. I take it you didn't always want to be a glorified tooth brusher?"

Thomas nodded. "And?"

"Did I ever tell you I was psychic? I know I am because a fuzzy-haired hippie with Tarot cards told me so. Your dad died of a terminal recurrence of hemangiopericytoma and you blame his death on your badly timed rebellion so . . . Hmm, lemme take a _wild_ stab at this-you thought maybe you could save hundreds of dying middle-aged men and it would be just like _not_ killing your dad. So you wanted to be an oncologist."

Thomas narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. "Yes," he admitted slowly, as if afraid House was going to lunge and attack him.

"Columbia?"

"How did you know where I-"

"I told you, I'm psychic. Besides, you wouldn't have wanted to graduate from there anyway. They can't spell oncology right. Then again, maybe having matching typos on your certificates passes for romantic nowadays. So you just, what? Decided that teeth were more interesting than debilitating tumours and the chance to metaphorically save dear ol' Pappy?" he asked sarcastically.

"Well, no, I just-I guess I just realized it wasn't what I wanted."

"Or maybe you just tore open Wilson's chest and ground his heart into the pavement," he snapped.

Thomas jaw dropped and stared at House, face paling considerably. "Wh-what? How did-you-he didn't-" He glanced at the door and he blinked rapidly. "Did you tell Nathaniel-"

"No I didn't and even if I had he wouldn't have cared. Just for your information, _TJ,"_ he spat, scowling deeply at him and eyes roving over his body, "he wasn't visiting the homeless shelters because of his altruistic need to save kittens and puppies. He was looking for his brother."

Thomas blinked at him. "His brother was just fine."

"His _other_ brother wasn't. So take your altruistic perfect image of him off your pedestal and _get over him."_

Thomas blinked at him then he smiled slightly, chuckling as he shook his head. "I'm not going to take him from you. I'm not-I'm not even here to rekindle our relationship. I just . . . It wasn't about-"

"I don't care why you're here," he interrupted. Thomas glared. "You lied about symptoms and when they presented so, what? It'd look like cancer? I'd send you over to oncology? You couldn't just go to Wilson off the bat because your little obsession with his articles meant your family already knew he was Jewish and you seeking him out would be a little suspicious. I'm not a moron.

"I don't care about your absolution; I don't care if you're trying to get with the one who got away. Ever since you've shown up, you haven't shut your trap about how much you regret your life; how you regret breaking some poor Jewish girl's heart and poor, kind, caring Thomas Mueller, forced to live with heartless Nazis while he polishes his high horse and justifies hating his wife and kid. Do you realize what your son does for you or are you so busy wallowing in your self-pity and passing out in your own sick to notice? He knows you sleep with men, moron, and he hides it from your mother because he loves you.

"And they're supposed to be the monsters," he finished with a scoff and sneer, and before Thomas could say anything that made him want to leap on top of him and punch him in the face, he turned on his left heel and left, slamming the door shut behind him.

He hadn't learned anything medically relevant, but he'd learned something far more important and reminded himself why he'd preferred to avoid his patients. Their idiocy got under his skin and now all he could feel for Thomas Mueller as he limped away was that the bastard _did_ deserve cancer.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Clinic drifted by Wilson quickly and it wasn't because he was enjoying himself; he was simultaneously dreading and anticipating coming out to House, and he was determined to do it before the day was over. However, he knew House was too intelligent not to realize just what his sexuality implied for them. He doubted House would treat him like another Cameron, but he just couldn't hope for anything more, even if he saw potential or would swear that House often seemed to want to push their friendship further. If he didn't want to deepen it, though, and Wilson asked . . . Thomas had hurt him and that was nothing compared to how he felt for House.

When he made it to his office with the intention of getting some paperwork done before he went over scheduling meetings with patients, future and current alike, for tomorrow, he saw House standing on the balcony. House was on his side so the partition hid half of him, but he was looking into Wilson's office with an expression that meant either Wilson better get out there and talk with him or he'd start tossing pebbles. In fact, he was bouncing pebbles in his hand with a smirk on his face already.

Wilson allowed himself a second to stare and smile softly, then cleared his throat and peeled off his lab coat before going outside to join his friend.

When Wilson pushed open the glass door, House dropped the pebbles and then climbed casually over the partition to be on Wilson's side. Wilson noticed that Thirteen and Chase were in the differential diagnosis room, sitting next to each other and facing them, drinking out of mugs.

House turned to the wall facing the horizon, elbows leant against the cement while he stared outward and Wilson stood by him, planting his palms on the cool wall and looking outward as well.

The temperature was on the hotter side of warm, but the very slight breeze balanced that out. The sky was bluer than Wilson had seen it for awhile, or maybe he just hadn't been paying attention lately. Nary a cloud in sight, and the dull thrum of traffic lulled around them.

"Been waiting for you for, like, ten years," House aired.

Wilson scoffed. "I was doing my clinic hours."

"For ten years?"

Wilson got the distinct impression that maybe they weren't talking about today or House's impatience for Wilson doing his job. He chanced a look at House, but he was still staring at the sky.

"The test results came back," House revealed after a small silence and Wilson looked away from House to study the scenery. "He doesn't have neurosyphilis."

"You don't sound very surprised."

He felt House shrug against his arm and Wilson turned to stare at him again, studying his relaxed profile. With the way he was leaning, Wilson was taller than him. The quiet, warm late-afternoon air swirled gently around them and House's lengthening hair twirled a bit.

"House," he began, swallowing the nervousness that settled in his throat and forced his heart to pound in his ears. House turned to look at him, eyes meeting his calmly and a completely relaxed expression on his face. Wilson's chest tightened. "I'm gay."

The word fell between them and it felt like a wave, strong but almost relaxing, crashed over him. He'd never said it aloud before and now he had-to House.

House's expression didn't even change. "Full time?" he asked.

Wilson chuckled and felt his grin stretch his cheeks. He ducked his chin a little but kept his eyes on House's. "Yeah, full time," he answered. "I just . . . I guess a part of me hoped that if I found the right girl, I could . . . I don't know; switch? That if I loved and cared for her enough, it would . . . stop." He let out a sighed and realized how pathetic he sounded.

House nudged him with his shoulder a bit flirtatiously and Wilson tilted his head, the tightness in his chest loosening and filling with warmth. House's smirk melted a little into something softer, but then he looked back out to the sky so Wilson couldn't see the smile anymore.

They both stared at the ground beneath them for a few moments and Wilson felt increasingly . . . peaceful, which was odd because out of all the scenarios he'd planned in his head before actually coming out to House hadn't ended with contentment or the airy feeling of calmness. House pushed himself into a standing position and matched Wilson's posture casually, hands planted on the wall so that the sides of their pinkies brushed. Wilson focused on their hands instead of the sky.

"So, did Thomas have seizures in med school too or are the symptoms really this new?"

Like a record with a scratch, the mood almost screeched. "What? Did he-"

"I figured it out."

"How did-oh, never mind," Wilson muttered; he'd seen enough of House's epiphanies that he knew how he figured things out was complicated and unimportant at the moment. House pushed against his shoulder a bit persistently and Wilson glanced away from their hands and at how close House was; he was even turning his head to look at him, obviously not bothered by their closeness.

Wilson looked back to the horizon. "No, he never had seizures. He . . . He wasn't ever really sick that I can remember. He was a lot happier then, though. Playful, even. I was the one who was always . . . under pressure. He always had some way to make me feel better, though. Massages, these . . . aromatic candles and colour schemes; feng shui and herbal tea . . ."

He frowned when he thought of a much younger and happier Thomas Mueller; the man who was House's patient was hardly the same, except for his go-with-the-flow behaviour. He knew House was still looking at him, so he continued. "He was always calm and easygoing, really. I didn't even know he was a Nazi until I met his brother and his mom. Of course we weren't openly going as boyfriends-neither of us were ready to admit that-but . . . Well, I'd thought it was strange he told me to tell them I was Protestant."

He furrowed his brows and remembered seeing his family for the first time; the swastika tattooed proudly on his brother's arm; the SS on his neck. He should have realized then that they wouldn't have lasted and maybe he had, but . . .

"We were going to run away together. I had everything packed. We were going to move into this . . . dumpy apartment and commute to school; finish up a semester and a half, graduate, and just . . . move to Florida. But he didn't show, and . . . I had to tell Sam why all of my stuff was gone when I got home. We tried marriage counselling for a few weeks but . . ." He scoffed and shook his head, knowing House was probably internally calling him a sap. "We were stupid," he admitted.

House's hand slipped over Wilson's and the warmth shot up his arm. He didn't intertwine his fingers; just rested it there, his warm palm against the back of Wilson's hand. After a few seconds, House stroked his thumb along the side of Wilson's palm. With his throat drying, Wilson turned to look at House to find him staring at their hands as well.

House finally looked at him, chin still lowered, and his gaze was tangible. He slid his fingers underneath Wilson's hand and then pulled it gently off of the partition and turned so that their torsos faced each other as well so they didn't have to turn their heads to stare at each other. He dropped his hand but the skin was still warm, and House kept staring at him, blue eyes clearer and more vivid than Wilson ever remembered them being.

House jerked his chin at something behind Wilson. "We should finish this gay discussion in your office," he said in a low voice and a slight tilt to the side of his mouth.

He knew Thirteen and Chase were probably staring at them and wondering what they were discussing and why it necessitated them standing so close to each other. Wilson realized House was hitting on him and he blinked rapidly, clearing his throat. "Right. Of course. Yes. In my office," he stuttered, then turned around and went through his door.

It was darker inside. His eyes had to adjust for a second and he walked towards his desk listlessly, not really quite sure what else to do. He felt House's hand on his shoulder briefly; a fleeting touch. He sucked in a shaky breath and then turned around so his back faced his desk and he knew he was shaking. Or, well, maybe he wasn't, but it felt like he was.

House stared at him, just an arm's length separating them, and then he took a step closer. Wilson tensed in anticipation but House must've misinterpreted because he stiffened too and then raised his eyebrows in question. He looked vulnerable-as vulnerable as House could get-and Wilson really tried not to smile at him, but failed.

For a few long seconds they just stared at each other, quiet and comfortable, and Wilson knew they were going to cross a line they had probably crossed ages ago; a line he hadn't even seen the other side of since Thomas. Oh, he'd been with men since then-one night stands, quick sex-based affairs that lasted a little more than week, but nothing serious. He hadn't been in love with a man since then; hadn't contemplated being in a relationship with one. Then again, he'd met House right after the fiasco that was the aftermath of Thomas and his divorce so he hadn't had a chance to love anyone else.

House shifted closer, looking down at the floor for a second before meeting Wilson's gaze again. It was surreal, almost-a few hours ago, Wilson had been with Sam and kissing Thomas and yesterday, House had been in a relationship with Cuddy. In fact, Sam was probably still at the loft packing.

"So . . ." House dragged the word out slightly, biting down on his lip and shifting his weight onto his other foot so that he was even closer to Wilson. Wilson wondered if House was nervous. "How does it feel to have The Big Secret off your chest?" he asked quietly, fingertips trailing down the side of Wilson's arm with the barest touch; it sent shivers along his skin.

"Liberating," Wilson answered, shifting closer to House. "A lot less stressful than I imagined," he continued quietly, ducking his head slightly and eyeing House's lips.

House leaned forward and Wilson bent his head upwards to catch his mouth, but then House pulled his head back slightly, brows furrowed as he looked past Wilson's shoulder. "Stressful," he repeated.

"Oh God. Now? Really?"

House either ignored him or was so lost in his epiphany he hadn't heard him because he hurried out of his office, the door not shutting completely as he left.

Wilson stood there for a second, then scoffed and raised his eyes heavenward with a head shake. He moved to walk around his desk to go to his chair and the door slammed open, making him jump about a foot in the air.

He barely had time to register the fact House had burst into his office before his lips crushed against Wilson's, hands splayed against his cheeks with his cane hooked over his own wrist. Wilson stumbled slightly, the small of his back hitting the edge of his desk, eyes wide open so he could see House's were squeezed shut, and his heart belatedly skipped a beat then hit his chest so hard it was almost painful. House's lips were slightly chapped and his grip on his face a little tight, and the edge of the desk had probably left a bruise.

It was the best kiss of his entire life.

House pulled away and Wilson almost fell to the floor; his knees were weak. He didn't, though; just let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Thank you!" House chirped as he quickly left the second time.

Wilson stared at the closed door for an indeterminate amount of time and forgot how to breathe.

* * *

Grinning, House moved through the halls seamlessly, even with the limp. He was sure that his smile probably scared the crap out of every nurse he passed, but he really didn't care. The lights seemed brighter, the colours more vivid, and his day just infinitely better that he couldn't care less that some random radiologist scowled and called him an ass under his breath. House had no idea why he said it but he didn't care because he'd kissed Wilson and he'd been waiting to do that for years.

The fact that he could just kiss Wilson whenever he wanted now made his stomach flip. Any time he wanted, he could just go into Wilson's office and make out with him. Or squeeze his ass and lick his mouth in the elevator. Or corner him in the clinic and nip at his bottom lip and whisper something seductive in a low voice. So many possibilities were now open to him and he intended to take advantage of that as much as possible.

He breezed right into his patient's room to see Nathaniel listening to his iPod and Sarah (he finally remembered her name) standing beside Thomas, holding his hand comfortingly and smiling softly at him. She looked at House and scowled, slipping her hand out of her husband's, and pursing her lips. "Knocking would've been appreciated," she informed haughtily.

House's heart clenched angrily at the sight of her openly affectionate face directed at a man who hated her guts, and then, without preamble, he grabbed her purse from the bedside table and jerked it open.

"I _beg_ your _pardon!"_ she screeched and reached for it, but he pulled out the bottle of ginseng he'd seen the first time he rummaged through it and shoved the purse into her hands.

He held the bottle in front of Thomas' face and rattled it. "Lemme guess-you take more the prescribed dosage?"

Thomas furrowed his brows. "What are you talking-"

"You're stressed. All of the time. Boo hoo. So you do something about it. I'd put money on the fact all the tea at your house has ginseng in it too. And you probably pop these like candy." He tossed the bottle in the air and caught it again. "You stay stressed and the pills and the tea don't work, so you take more and more and more . . . And then you overdose on it and give yourself seizures. Some bright young doctor you would've been."

"Wait, so . . . all of this was caused by over-the-counter herbal agents?" his wife asked with both of her eyebrows raised and a few blinks too many.

"Did any of you happen to read the back? The back that specifically says the amount you're supposed to take and _not_ to exceed the limit? Then again, what do I know? I'm just a doctor that _didn't_ drop out."

Thomas stared at him, and Sarah glanced at Nathaniel, who must've taken out his earbuds when he'd seen House take his mother's purse. They were all staring at him in surprise, and a few moments later they all looked at Thomas, whose expression was blank. He didn't really look like a man who had just been successfully diagnosed.

Thomas frowned and his brows knitted together. "I've been poisoning myself," he stated and he made a weird noise somewhere between a choke and a sigh. "So . . . What do I do?"

"Stop taking it and deal with your stress the old fashioned way-by jacking off in the toilet. That should make everything as right as rain. You'll be back to your loving family and won't have to worry about dying for many, many, _many_ years to come," he told him with a meaningful glare, then turned around and started towards the door, tossing the pill bottle in the garbage.

"Wait, Doctor House," Sarah called and he turned around to face her. She smiled at him and she looked so different with a smile stretching across her face he might not have recognized her if he'd bumped into her at the store. "Thank you so much. I can see why they say you're the best. I'll make sure to express my gratitude to the Dean personally."

Sarah beamed at him, Nathaniel nodded upwards at him in thanks, and Thomas stared at his lap because his family wasn't currently staring at him. He looked absolutely gobsmacked and maybe even a little disappointed.

House smirked. "By the way, I totally made out with Wilson five minutes ago. It was epic," he boasted just because he could, it would annoy Thomas, and he was insanely happy about the fact they'd kissed. He saw Thomas' expression twist into that of a child who just found out Santa didn't exist, and he chuckled darkly as he left the room. "Zeig heil!" he shouted with a little arm pump and the door shut behind him.

* * *

Fluorescent lighting surrounded them, only making the window opening into Thomas' room appear to be a door into another world. The lighting in there was a bit more muted and shadows coloured the corners. Thomas was sitting up straight, still there for some observation, while his family sat on the bed, all three of them engaging in a thumb war.

Chase put his hands in his pockets as he watched it and he knew he was frowning. Taub stood beside him, hands also in his pockets, but he didn't seem to really be bothered by the scene in front of him.

"He hates them," Chase informed, feeling sick even as he said it.

Taub sighed as Nathaniel stood from the bed and raised his hands towards the roof in victory. Although they couldn't hear him, he seemed to be very vocal about winning. He began doing an odd sort of tribal dance around the foot of the bed and Sarah laughed. Neither of them were staring at Thomas, and as soon as they'd looked away his face had fallen into an expression of complete desolation. He slumped back against his mattress and scowled.

Chase swallowed. "You know, I don't get it. Why stay with them? You know he won't leave them. He could go somewhere, disappear, and be happy for once in his life. But he won't. It's like . . . it's like he's punishing himself."

Taub shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe he is. Or maybe he's an idiot," he settled.

"Doesn't that bug you?" Chase asked, watching Thomas grin happily as soon as his family turned to him. Even thought he was studying him closely, he couldn't find the falseness behind the expression. He would have believed it himself had he not known how fake it was.

"Of course it does," Taub admitted. "Not everybody gets a happy ending. Did you expect that Jewish girl to come in for an unprecedented visit and them to ride off into the sunset together?"

"No, of course not. But there's a difference between not getting one, and choosing an ending you know you'll hate. On purpose."

They all grabbed hands and started another thumb war, and it sickened Chase how blissfully unaware the two of them were that Thomas couldn't stand them. Nobody could keep up a façade forever, especially not one that was a continuous lie. One day he would slip and they'd find out; one day he would break their hearts and it would be all for naught. He would get nowhere.

Or maybe he wouldn't slip. Maybe he'd manage to keep it up until he died.

Neither ending seemed preferable.

"My wife's having a dinner party next week," Taub stated, tearing Chase out of his thoughts. "You're invited if you want to come."

Chase nodded. "All right. I'll be there."

Although that seemed to be a great way to end the conversation and to walk away, it really only accomplished the former. They stood there and continued watching.

* * *

The television played in the background as Wilson sifted through the fridge. Dusk dyed the sky red and purple, the dark colours bleeding into the loft through the windows. They'd turned most of the lights off, only leaving a small lamp on and currently the light inside the fridge shone across the kitchen. He searched for beer he knew wasn't there then tried to find something House might actually drink; there were a few bottles of water and one can of Pepsi left from the six-pack he'd bought to Sam's chagrin.

He grabbed the can and shut the fridge, smiling as he gazed across the dark loft and at House.

Although Sam had been gone before they made it here (they'd gone out to dinner at a nearby diner and rented some movies; he didn't want to chance having House and Sam accidentally meet on her way out) he hardly even noticed a difference. She'd been living with him for a little more than two months and had hardly left a mark. He knew that there would be several DVDs gone and if he checked his closet one half of it would be empty; her dresser hadn't been in his room when he'd looked in there to make sure, and some of the food was gone. Food Wilson wouldn't miss. Were he to check the bathroom, makeup and feminine products would be absent as would a few towels and washrags. Little things that he had barely noticed in the first place.

Unlike Sam, when House had left it had been noticeable. With the exception of the organ Wilson had bought him, everything he'd owned disappeared. More than half their DVD collection belonged to House, records, CDs, and even cassettes disappeared; although there was no need for Wilson to be in his best friend's former room, he'd peered in there several times and felt as if his stomach dropped out of his body every time he saw the sheet-less bed in the bare room. It wasn't only that he'd missed, though-the sound of House pacing throughout the night when his thigh bothered him; the sound of the television until well-past midnight; being woken up at three in the morning because House needed to have an epiphany . . . Sitting beside each other and eating dinner on the couch instead of at the table; the subtle jabs at each other; insults that were really endearments . . .

They hadn't discussed the kiss in his office or even their relationship, not that he'd expected it. They hadn't talked about House moving back in or if they would kiss again. They hadn't done anything except blather on about unimportant things and laugh at each other's dry and mostly inappropriate jokes, although ever since they'd left the hospital House had been touching him more; a small touch to his hip or tracing his finger across his shoulder blades as he passed behind him at Blockbuster. At the diner they'd had several lapses of silence where they'd just looked at each other and smiled as if sharing a private joke. The both of them were well aware of the fact all of the stuff he'd packed from Cuddy's place was still in Wilson's trunk, and even though neither of them had said anything Wilson had a suspicion House would stay the night.

Perhaps permanently.

They hadn't discussed topping or bottoming or whether they would make their relationship public, but knowing House he probably would, very loudly and obnoxiously, and Wilson was all right with that.

Wilson sat beside House, perhaps closer than he would've two months ago, and handed over the can of Pepsi. House frowned pointedly at it. "It takes less muscles to smile, you know," he informed.

"I'm exercising," House replied and Wilson rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "What, no beer?" House popped the tab, the hiss of it opening permeating the air.

"Sam wasn't a beer drinker." House took a sip and, with his eyes still on the television, leaned forward to put his soda on the coffee table. Wilson gently cuffed the side of House's knee. "Coaster," he reminded.

House just scoffed and sat back against the couch, ignoring him entirely. Wilson leaned forward, placing the Pepsi delicately on a coaster and then leaned back against the couch. "You're such a girl," House accused with a very slight undertone of affection.

Their hips and legs were touching. "What did I miss?" Wilson asked, watching the screen and confused enough to know something had happened while he'd been rummaging through the fridge.

"They found semen in the dead girl's ear," House told him.

Wilson turned to gaze at House's profile, light from the TV flickering on his face. "I guess she heard her killer coming."

House turned his head and looked at Wilson with his eyebrows raised, then he laughed, face breaking into a grin as if it had been trying to get loose for hours. Wilson couldn't help but return the smile and the laugh faded but House didn't look away. Instead he reached forward and brushed Wilson's temple as if pushing an invisible bang behind his ear. This close, even in the dark, he could see every inch of House's face clearly-every wrinkle, every thin almost-invisible scar, every flaw-but he could see every perfection too. He allowed House to trace the contours of his face with his fingertips before holding his chin with his thumb and forefinger, raising his eyebrows in question.

They kissed, lips meeting gently but with no room for misinterpretation, and unlike last time, Wilson closed his eyes. Without parting, they opened their mouths slightly to breathe in at the same time and then they nudged together, soft and barely there. Wilson tilted his chin up at the same time House ducked his head the slightest bit so that his brow rested on the bridge of Wilson's nose, between his eyes. Wilson felt shaky breath skirt across his collarbone and he ducked his head too, brushing his nose against House's to encourage him.

Their mouths met more firmly, but not at all rough, and then House flicked his tongue against his bottom lip before kissing that spot lightly. Wilson tilted his head and pointedly caressed House's mouth with his own; teasing it open slowly until their tongues touched.

The spark that shot into his belly started slow, pleasant burns that he'd experienced before, but never before had he felt the bone-deep electric bliss that overtook every inch of his skin. The rest of the world fell away as every nerve along his skin became hyper-sensitive, tingles running up and down his arms; sending waves up his spine, making him arch as the kiss deepened to slow and open-mouthed; the type of kiss that usually meant yes, he could come in for a cup of coffee.

With each thrust inward of House's tongue, Wilson let loose a tiny, barely audible moan. He would have been embarrassed if he could find it in him to care. As it was, all he could think about was the taste of House; the feel of his stubble scraping his mouth; the wet slide and persistent push of their tongues; the fact House had just made a quiet, almost-needy whine.

House's hand was at the back of his neck, holding him there and pushing him forward, and Wilson absently clutched at House's shirt, tugging him closer. They tilted their heads in the other direction, noses bumping for a moment before resuming. Their teeth clashed briefly and House's fingernails scratched at skin at the base of his head. House's hand slid into Wilson's hair and tugged on the short strands there. House scoffed a laugh into Wilson's mouth when he let out a particularly loud moan.

"Shut up," Wilson murmured before nipping at House's bottom lip.

"You _like_ getting your hair pulled," House pointed out with a laugh. "That could be useful later."

Wilson pulled his head back and smirked. "Hmm, depends on how late 'later' is. I do have early meetings tomorrow."

"You suck," House whined, turning to the television but plopping his arm against the back of the couch. Wilson gave it less than a minute before that same arm draped over his shoulders.

"Once again-depends on what you meant by later," he replied smoothly, body still thrumming and heart still hammering rapidly in his chest.

He leant his head against House's shoulder and held his breath for a second, afraid he might pull away and not yet be comfortable with that sort of affection. House pressed his knee against Wilson's firmly, then dropped his arm on his shoulder, and Wilson let out a grateful sigh. The warm, solid presence of House relaxed him, and he breathed in his scent. He wasn't surprised that House sniffed his hair in return, although he wondered if he knew Wilson was aware of the action.

"I think I could get into that," House muttered belatedly, lips moving across his scalp. Wilson didn't imagine the fact he pressed his lips against his head and smelled him again, but he didn't say anything, despite the fact his heart skipped a beat. "So, whaddaya say? I already know who the killer is."

"There's no way."

"Fifty bucks."

"You're on."

* * *

A/N-Well, this was the final chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed. Thanks again to theletterv. Also, I've always respected the writers, but now my respect runs deeper because it is damn difficult writing medical stuff. I really don't know how they do it once a week. Also, zeig heil (I've also seen it spelled seig heil) means "hail victory."


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